Clean Slate
by Alex L. Kerr
Summary: Sam and Dean have their memories erased overnight in the midst of an otherwise typical hunt. Without a shared history, do they still make a good team? Relevant tags: Amnesia, BigBro!Dean, Hurt!Sam
1. Chapter 1

_Writer's Note: Hey guys! I know I should launch back into You Better Start Swimming and finish the damn thing, but my Sunday was taken over by this _other_ concept I wanted to play around with. _

_This story is located somewhere in the second or third season and **there is no romance in this story** whatsoever. _

_One **warning**, though: there's a lot of **swearing** happening, so if you think I rated it too low, just shoot me a PM and I'll mark it up to 'M,' or something. __Thanks guys! ~ Alex Kerr_

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 1**

Sam opened his eyes slowly, starting to wake up. Thinking of nothing in particular, his mind blank, he took in the sight of the run-down motel room with indifference. He vaguely felt a warm pressure against his back. _Nice blankets, though_, Sam thought.

He hummed a sigh as he moved a little bit, awareness starting to surface as the gears in his mind started to grind. He looked up at the clock on the nightstand: eight A.M. He could use some coffee.

He moved again to roll onto his back before getting out of bed but instead knocked into something. The warm pressure he thought had been the blankets was a solid mass behind him.

Sam's instincts went into overdrive, his entire body tensing in bed as he took a good look at the stranger next to him and shouted in shock.

"What the shit?!" Sam nearly fell out of bed in alarm. He landed on the floor and scrambled up just as Dean stirred, then opened his eyes sharply, zeroing in on Sam immediately.

"Who are you?!" Sam demanded, shocked and angry. Dean's eyes blazed threateningly at Sam, but kept quiet. Sam noticed movement under the pillow near Dean; a split second later, Dean was up, standing on the other side of the bed, brandishing an intimidatingly large blade.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean shot back in a menacing undertone, his stance obviously defensive and ready for a fight.

"Hey, w-whoa!" Sam said, backing up in fear. He raised his hands up to Dean. "That is _so_ unnecessary!" He finished, pointing at the knife, appalled. Dean held his ground, though, and watched with narrowed eyes as Sam backed up near the desk.

Suddenly a flash of knowledge hit Dean about what the stranger before him was about to do, but it was too late. In one quick move, Sam had reached under the desk, grasped the handgun lodged there, and was now pointing it at Dean.

"Ah! Fuck," Dean grunted in frustration as Sam leveled the gun in his direction.

"Put. The knife. Down," Sam ordered slowly, the sound of his voice having lowered into an equally threatening tone to Dean's. Dean gave Sam a rueful look and threw the knife on the floor. He looked back up at Sam, pissed, and threw his hands up, gesturing that he had no weapons. Sam noticed he didn't look any less threatening, though, and kept his gun on its target.

"Who are you?" Sam asked again gravely. Dean licked his lips, staring daggers into the stranger before him.

"Answer me!" Sam demanded, a little louder. He moved the gun to indicate his control over the situation. Dean gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to growl an answer when he stopped, an entirely different expression overcoming him. He stared at the floor, frustrated confusion evident in his stance.

"Hey!" Sam shouted, snapping the man back to the situation at hand: he was being held at gun point – Sam deserved a little recognition here.

"I don't know," the man finally responded to Sam, his voice slightly shocked, but more angry that he was being forced into answering this stranger's questions.

"You don't know who you are?" Sam repeated with disdainful skepticism. "I'm gonna count to three, and if you don't start-"

"I'm telling you I don't _know_!" Dean yelled back, eyes alight with frustration. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know who you are. I – Don't – _Know_," Dean stressed his last few words, his bafflement easily translating to anger towards the stranger with the gun.

Sam didn't know what to do. A few moments passed by before Dean gave a long sigh and attempted a casual hand wave, gesturing to Sam.

"Do you know who _you_ are?"

Sam huffed in amusement. _Of course _ _I know who I am_, he thought. Until he tried to remember.

The gun still trained on him, Dean could tell Sam was going through the same realization that had hit him only moments before: no memories, no recollection whatsoever. Just instinct. Dean studied the man before him. He was really tall. And they'd been sleeping in the same bed. _Weird_, Dean thought. He felt zero emotion towards this guy.

"So you're drawing a blank, too, huh?" Dean finally asked. Sam bit his lip, conflicted, but finally nodded.

"All right can we truce or something? I don't like this," Dean tried to negotiate, pointing at the gun Sam still held steadily in his hands.

Sam looked at the gun with uncertainty. He cringed as he looked back at Dean.

"Yeah I… Don't really want to do that," Sam admitted honestly. It would have been comical were either of them in the mood.

"Okay how about you just _lower_ the gun – you can keep it on you, though?" Dean continued.

Sam pursed his lips together and slowly lowered the gun away from its target.

"Thanks," Dean said clearly, still eyeing Sam with suspicion. Sam still had both hands on the gun, ready to lift it again at a moment's notice.

"Uh huh," he replied skeptically, watching Dean. A few moments passed in silence, with both of them staring at the other with harassed expressions. Sam was at a loss, and Dean could sense the stranger's worry – could see it in his eyes. Sam, however, only saw blunt confusion in Dean. Despite his confusion, though, Sam sensed Dean's general demeanor of self-assurance. It struck him as odd, given the fact that as Sam continuously tried to remember _anything_ about his past, his own anxiety kept ticking up in notches.

"So you're in the same boat as me? No memories? No nothing?" Dean broke the silence, curiosity overriding his other senses.

Sam gulped and looked around the room in bewilderment.

"Yeah."

Dean nodded and followed Sam's eyes to look around the motel room. As he surveyed the room, he spoke up again.

"Do you remember your name?"

At Sam's silence, Dean looked back up to him expectantly. Sam, dazed, met Dean's eyes and shook his head with a furrowed brow.

"You?"

"No," Dean answered almost immediately. "Can I move around?" He asked Sam, nodding to the gun in his hands, reminding him that Sam was still in control as long as he had his weapon. His gut told him to try to keep this guy feeling secure. It made sense, as he was the one with the gun, after all. He waited for the man to reply before moving away from the side of the bed.

"Yeah, sure, I guess," Sam answered weakly. Dean nodded in understanding to Sam and cautiously moved over to the small table by the window of the motel room. He wanted to look at the news clippings and articles that had been haphazardly taped or stamped to the wall.

Sam moved back to look at the items on the desk – a duffle had been thrown onto the table and as Sam unzipped it, he looked back at Dean as he heard him whistle.

"What?"

"This is some serial killer shit right here…" Dean murmured.

"What?" Sam said in annoyed surprise, walking closer to see what the man was looking at.

"They're all article clippings of deaths in the same place: Richmond, Virginia," the man informed Sam as he continued to stare at the wall. Sam turned and backed up over to the nightstand.

"Hey-" Sam called to the guy, picking up the motel notepad. Dean turned around.

"Yeah?"

"This place? The motel's called The Horseshoe Inn – Richmond, Virginia. Says it right here…" Sam trailed off, disturbed. A few moments of silence passed.

"You think we're serial killers?" Dean blurted as he casually started opening the lap top on the table, scrutinizing the screen as it booted up. Sam looked up at Dean to catch his eye, disgruntled at the thought.

"N-no. I don't feel evil…"

"That's good. Because you're the one with the gun," Dean quipped as he sat down.

"What…" Sam gulped, fear returning to his eyes, "What about you?"

Dean looked up casually, eyes reflecting slight amusement. Sam had no idea how this stranger wasn't as devastated as him right now.

"Me? No," he said confidently. Sam managed to relax a little. "Although," Dean pointed to the bed, "I have no idea why I had a machete under my pillow."

"I have no idea how I knew a gun was under the desk," Sam murmured, looking down at it in his hand. It felt comfortable, though; familiar.

"So you knew how to handle a gun; I knew how to handle the blade. Our memories are zapped to hell, but I think we can safely say that this is our motel room."

"We only have one bed-" Sam said softly, then looked up at Dean.

Dean, who had been staring at the lap top monitor, blinked up at Sam without moving his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Let's not go there, dude."

Sam couldn't help but give a small chuckle. He was okay with that decision: he felt nothing for this stranger. The fact that they must have fallen asleep in the same bed while their memories were intact was not the mystery he wanted to solve at the moment, either. However, it did indicate one thing that he wanted to throw out on the table.

"But, you know, it does mean that when we had our memories, we didn't think the other one would kill us in our sleep."

Dean scrunched his mouth to the side and squinted, his distaste for that assumption evident. He put an elbow on the table and propped his head up in thought.

"I had the knife under my pillow, though. You had to get the gun from the desk. For all you or I know, I _was_ planning to kill you in your sleep," Dean replied, genuinely concerned. He didn't know why, exactly, but that thought ate at him. It was a cowardly manner in which to murder someone – something he realized he had a natural revulsion towards. And there was something else – an unerring, intense confidence that told him that that circumstance would simply _never_ happen.

"You think that's what you were planning?" Sam asked, starkly appalled. Dean looked at the stranger's expression and something pulled at him.

"No," he replied glibly. His voice held certainty, though, and Sam, again, visibly relaxed. Dean noticed and wondered what the hell was going on – this guy, a complete stranger, seemed overly influenced by Dean's words and behavior. The sense that this guy was consistently watching him, reading him so closely was almost cloying. Just as he was about to say something, the guy spoke up.

"What's with the laptop?" Sam didn't move from the bed – he didn't want to come too close to Dean.

"There's a lot on here. Files on some pretty weird shit, I've gotta say," Dean answered as he navigated through the various PDFs on mythological creatures – each with their own folders.

"Weird shit like… Serial killer shit?" Sam asked, again slightly worried. Dean looked up at Sam, biting his lip.

"Not… Really. There's docs of mythological creatures on here-" He said as he turned the laptop around to show Sam the screen. Sam backed up, though, nervous to be too close to Dean. "Here- Just take it, will you?" Dean pushed the laptop towards Sam impatiently. "C'mon I'm not gonna hurt you – you're still the one with the gun, remember?" Dean pressed. Sam winced, but finally set the gun down on the bed and grabbed the laptop from Dean's hand. Dean released his grip from the laptop and leaned back, resting his hand on the table and feeling keys under several documents.

"Whoa," Sam murmured as he flipped through the folders. "Rawheads, Witches, Demons, Ghouls, Werewolves-? What the hell-?"

"I know," Dean muttered as he fished the keys out of the mess on the table. "Hey," he called to Sam. Sam broke his gaze from the laptop and looked up at the keys Dean was dangling from his index finger.

"Car keys?" Sam asked. Dean shrugged and nodded.

"You want to go to the front desk, ask for our names? I'll start testing the cars in the lot?" Dean offered.

"Um," Sam considered, overwhelmed. "Um, sure, I guess," he finally said. Dean stood up, instantly feeling better with a plan. "Hey, wait."

Dean turned around.

"What about wallets?"

Dean looked down at his t-shirt and sweats, patting himself down.

"I don't know where that'd be. You want to stay inside and search for them?" Dean asked. Sam shrugged and nodded. "Cool, okay." Dean turned around.

"Hey-" Sam called, and Dean turned around to look at Sam again, "You think it'll jog our memories?" Sam asked.

"Ah, yeah," Dean breathed in reply as he opened the door, "It better, right?" He turned to give Sam a meaningful look: a lot was at stake here. He stopped, though, when he saw Sam's doubtful, worried expression. "What, you don't think it'll work?"

"I… Don't know. But our memories are completely wiped. I've never heard of anything like this."

"Repeat what you just said in your head, dude. If your memory is completely wiped, how could you know if you've ever heard of anything like this happening?"

"That's fair but I still remember general stuff, I think," Sam answered quickly. Dean turned to look at him fully, an eyebrow raised.

"Like what?"

"I don't know…" Sam murmured, slightly exasperated, then quirked his head to the side in confusion. "Court case precedents."

"Court case precedents? Like… Law? Lawyers?"

"Y-yeah…" Sam looked up and realized they were both wearing dumbfounded expressions. After a moment or two, Dean shook his head.

"Um, okay. Whatever. I'm gonna go check out the cars."

"Okay," Sam murmured in acquiescence.

…

Five minutes later, Dean watched Sam leave the motel room.

"Hey!" Dean waved Sam down. Sam stopped and turned at Dean's call and waved back. "D'you find anything?"

"No, just a money clip," Sam called back.

"With money in it?"

"Yeah-?" Sam replied slowly.

"How much?" Dean blurted from across the parking lot.

"I'm not shouting you the answer to that," Sam replied as he began to walk towards the motel's office. Dean laughed as he turned back to the cars in the parking lot. That guy could _not_ be a lawyer – the kid was too young. Then Dean backtracked on that thought: how old was _he_? For some reason, he felt confident that he was older than the stranger – he was more self-assured, more relaxed in this crisis, than him. And that was another thing: for some reason, he'd defaulted to thinking the stranger was a, 'kid.'

He wiped his hand over his mouth and noticed his hands were shaking. A brief flash of understanding flew through him: coffee. He ignored the desire and surveyed the parking lot. Squinting, he walked over to a less obvious corner of the lot and landed his eyes on a black, 1967 Impala. He twitched a smile as he made a bee-line towards the car, hoping against hope that it was his.

_Okay, so I guess I love classic cars_, Dean realized. He reached the Impala and ran his calloused hand across the smooth black exterior and angled the keys into the driver's side door.

"Okay c'mon baby," he whispered as he turned the lock. "Ha!" Dean exclaimed in a small huff of satisfaction. He opened the door and looked inside.

"Holy shit-" Dean whispered as he took in the interior. Needless to say, the car looked lived-in. The driver's and passenger side seats were well-worn. A hoodie was hanging over the front bench seat. A denim over shirt was stuck in between the seat cushions. Food wrappers were balled up in the door consoles. Several ancient-looking books were strewn around the floor of the passenger seat, as well as in the back. Dean squinted at the title of one: a law textbook. _Okay, so this car might be his - or shared by the two of us_, Dean reasoned. At this, Dean felt a little deflated – something inside him, a sense of possession, sparked for a brief moment. He closed the door to the driver's seat and moved to the back. Opening the door behind the driver's seat, he spotted a little green army man stuck in the ash tray of the door and grimaced.

"Ugh, kids," he murmured. He kneed the backseat and ducked inside. "I really hope we're not responsible for any kids here because that would be fucked up," he groaned to himself as he pulled a duffle bag from the seat well and pulled it in front of him. He unzipped it, revealing the dangerous contents.

"Shit," he said angrily, the pit in his stomach sinking further. He was staring at two sawed-off shotguns, a crossbow, about five full flasks, three hand guns, and three knives. Dean leaned back, away from the bag, and covered his face with his hand.

"Oh my god we're serial killers," he breathed, overwhelmed.

"Hey!"

Dean jerked, recognizing the voice, and turned to see the tall stranger coming towards him with two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He sighed and moved around to put his legs onto the pavement, but still sat on the backseat. He didn't think he had the strength to stand up under the circumstances – he and this guy might actually be serial killers. He squinted when he looked up to the approaching stranger.

"I got coffee," he said. Dean grimaced tiredly.

"How do I know you didn't poison it?"

"I… Didn't," Sam replied bluntly, surprised. Dean rolled his eyes and took the coffee.

"So this is the car?" Sam recovered. Dean nodded sadly as he followed Sam's gaze, still incredibly unhappy about the duffle of weapons he'd found.

"Yeah," Dean murmured. For some reason, he didn't want to tell this guy about the duffle – and it wasn't because he wanted an upper hand if the two of them came to blows. No. It was because he didn't want to _worry_ the kid any more than he already was. It was a strange instinct, but Dean held onto it and diverted the conversation. He took a sip of his coffee.

"So what – D'you find out our names?" Dean asked as he saw Sam rummaging around the front seat.

"Law textbook, d'you see that?" Sam asked from up front.

"Yeah I saw it," Dean answered, an unspoken understanding passing between them: whoever Sam was, he belonged to the car.

"Our names?" Dean prompted again.

"Uh - yeah - They seemed fake," Sam answered, his head below view from Dean's perspective. He was hitting something in front of the passenger seat.

"What do you mean, fake?"

"You got the keys?" Sam asked offhandedly, reaching his arm behind him, looking for Dean to put them into his hand. Sam was still focused on what Dean realized was the glove compartment. Still, Dean was slightly surprised that Sam was trusting him enough to _not look_ at Dean while his hand was extended out to him. Dean could easily stab him with one of the knives in the duffle and gain the upper hand (_no pun intended_, Dean joked to himself).

Suddenly, Dean's stomach somersaulted in disgust at the idea, though. Silently, he gently placed the keys into Sam's hand.

"Thanks," Sam murmured, and proceeded to angle the key into the lock.

"So, fake names?"

"Yeah. Apparently you're Walker Harrison and I'm Francis Norris," Sam said distractedly as the glove compartment popped open. Dean had leaned forward from the back seat and, at their given names, started laughing.

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah," Sam replied absentmindedly as he pulled out what looked like a makeshift cigar box, "So I doubt those are our real names."

Dean smiled and sized the stranger up.

"I dunno you kinda look like a Francis," Dean found himself teasing. _What the hell am I teasing this guy for? I don't even know him_, Dean thought.

"Yeah whatever _Walker_," Sam replied instantly, knocking Dean off guard again. _Were they bantering?_

Sam had to flip the box upside down in order to get the lid to open the right way. As he did so, the contents fell out on his lap.

"Oh… Jesus…" Sam muttered as he looked at the various forms of identification. Dean took one look at the contents and got out from the backseat to slide into the front, behind the wheel.

"This just keeps getting weirder and weirder, man," Dean said as he flipped through laminated badges of both him and the stranger.

"Did you, uh, find anything else? Anything in the back?" Sam asked, stunned, as he continued to scrutinize the badges with his face on them. Dean gave a sidelong glance at Sam, nervous about admitting to the duffle of weapons. He couldn't lie, though, and then wondered why he felt the compulsion to be honest at all. Dean swept over it and answered meekly over a small cough.

"Yeah, um, there's a duffle of freaky weapons in the back – on the seat."

Sam looked up at him, alarmed, and immediately twisted around the front seat. Dean watched as Sam pushed himself up a little bit to reach and spread the bag wide open. Dean counted a couple of seconds as the guy just stared at its contents.

"Okay," Sam whispered, closing the bag and turning around to stare, unseeing, out the windshield. "Okay."

"Okay what? Hey- uh - Francis!" Dean yelled as Sam opened the passenger side door and got out of the car.

Dean followed suit and got out on the other side of the Impala to look at Sam, who was now just staring out at the sky.

"Hey- You okay?" Dean asked, slightly concerned. Sam braced himself against the roof of the car.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Sam grumbled weakly.

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_Writer's End Note: Thank you for reading! Please review! Please please!~ Alex Kerr_


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously…_

"_Yeah, um, there's a duffle of freaky weapons in the back – on the seat."_

_Sam looked up at him, alarmed, and immediately twisted around the front seat. Dean watched as Sam pushed himself up a little bit to reach and spread the bag wide open. Dean counted a couple of seconds as the guy just stared at its contents. _

"_Okay," Sam whispered, closing the bag and turning around to stare, unseeing, out the windshield. "Okay."_

"_Okay what? Hey- uh - Francis!" Dean yelled as Sam opened the passenger side door and got out of the car. _

_Dean followed suit and got out on the other side of the Impala to look at Sam, who was now just staring out at the sky._

"_Hey- You okay?" Dean asked, slightly concerned. Sam braced himself against the roof of the car._

"_I think I'm going to throw up," Sam grumbled weakly. _

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 2**

Dean twitched a guilty smile at how pathetic the kid sounded, but a twinge of sympathy pulled at him, too. He walked around to the other side of the car.

"Hey – man – Don't throw up," Dean offered, not knowing what else to say.

"I'm trying not to," Sam replied, gulping air as he stared at the parking lot cement below him.

"Try, um, try crouching –" Dean coached, unsure whether his presence was really helping the kid. But almost immediately, the kid started to sink down into a crouch, cradling his head in his hands. "Just take it easy," Dean added softly, not wanting to jar the kid with loud orders or instructions. Dean leveled into a crouch near the kid, but not too close.

"Oh hey, you know what? There was a first aid kit in the back that I saw – maybe there's some Tylenol or aspirin or something in there…" Dean offered, and stood up to go check it out.

"Okay yeah thanks," Sam managed to say as Dean walked around the car.

Dean headed into the backseat and opened the first aid kit. Slightly shocked by how well stocked the kit was, Dean ignored it for the time being and pulled out the bottle of Tylenol. As he got out, he looked around for the kid's coffee.

"Hey, uh, Francis?" Dean called out.

"Yeah?" Sam responded from the ground on the other side of the car.

"Where's your coffee?"

"I think it fell off the roof," Sam replied, still sounding nauseous. Dean bent in to grab his coffee off the dash and moved back around to Sam.

"Here," he crouched down and handed Sam his coffee and placed the two pills into Sam's palm.

"No water?" Sam asked wearily.

"Oh, well, I haven't checked the trunk. Maybe there's some bottled water in there…" Dean replied, thinking out loud. He moved to grab the keys from the glove compartment and walked around to the trunk. He made quick work of the lock and lifted the door up.

"Ah found some-" He said, spotting a half-drunk plastic water bottle in the corner of the otherwise empty compartment. Leaving the trunk open, he walked back around to Sam and traded his coffee with the water bottle.

"Thanks," Sam grunted, downing the pills with a quick gulp of water.

"Mmhm," Dean murmured, looking away from Sam and out around the parking lot. He heard Sam trying to control his breathing and felt awkward watching him: they were strangers and the kid probably didn't want him watching him as he gathered his composure. When the kid sounded better, Dean turned to him, worry etched in his face.

"Better?"

"Uh huh," Sam grumbled, moving from a crouch to simply sitting against the Impala on the asphalt. He bent his knees up and rested his elbows on them.

"So what do you think?" Dean asked. Sam looked up into the sky and gave a small chuckle as he landed his eyes back to Dean.

"We're serial killers?" Sam offered with a shrug. "I mean, the weapons, the fake IDs, the obsession with monsters, the newspaper clippings of deaths here-"

"It seems like we're pretty, um, crazy, yeah," Dean agreed, biting his lower lip in grim consideration.

"But you know what's weird, though?" Dean spoke up.

"What?"

"I don't feel … Crazy. You know? Like you said before – you don't feel evil, right?"

Sam shrugged.

"Yeah, but-"

"No and – when you went in to the office, did you feel like hurting anyone?"

"No."

"Do you feel like you want to hurt me?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"Okay. Where are you going with this?" Sam asked tiredly.

"I'm saying that we're probably not crazy serial killers."

"I get what you're saying, man, but the evidence is _not_ in our favor here," Sam stated bluntly. Dean shook his head.

"Some things aren't adding up."

"Like what?"

"Well, you study law, for one thing."

"So I study law, that doesn't make me _not_ crazy. It probably makes us more efficient killers," Sam offered, making even himself sick to his stomach at the thought.

"What about the fact that the stuff we have on the laptop is about supernatural monsters?"

"So we're crazy _occultist_ serial killers."

"There's a little green army man in the ash tray in the back seat – it's a toy for kids."

At this, Sam covered his face with his hands.

"Oh god please don't tell me we hurt kids," he groaned in despair.

"Damn it, man! You're not getting me here!" Dean yelled, pulling Sam's hands from his face. The kid flinched at his touch, but didn't pull away as Dean finished speaking. "If we were seriously crazed maniacs we wouldn't be reacting like this!" Dean stared into Sam's eyes desperately, hoping he could convince the kid.

Sam's eyes stared into Dean's green ones and sensed the truth in his words. Sam breathed in and out, settling on this stranger's confidence that they were not, in fact, bad people.

"Okay," Sam murmured.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay. We're not crazy occultist murderers."

"Right," Dean confirmed, refusing to break eye contact with the kid. Sam gave a heavy sigh.

"Oh – I, uh, talked to the manager about getting our own rooms. He said we checked in a few days ago at, like, one in the morning. All the rooms were taken because of a convention and we were cornered into taking the only available room with one bed," Sam explained softly.

"That makes sense," Dean replied, having been nodding along with Sam's words. "Hey – that means we weren't in town when the murders around here started, right?" He perked up, looking at Sam.

Sam looked up at Dean, eyes widening with hope.

"Yeah, actually," he nodded with approval, "that's right."

Sam and Dean remained in place for a few more seconds.

"Okay, c'mon," Dean said finally, standing up and looking down at Sam. "Can you get up? D'you need help?" Dean asked, leaning forward a little bit to help the kid.

"No I got it," Sam refused Dean's hand and stood up to follow him back inside the room.

"How the hell are we going to figure out our real names?" Sam murmured as they walked inside. He looked around the room as Dean walked into the bathroom.

"What're you doing?" Sam called.

"Brushing my teeth."

Sam scrunched his face in irritation and walked back to the desk that held the duffle he had been going through. He looked at the clothes, figuring they must be his.

Both he and _Walker_ were still wearing undershirts and sweats – sleepwear Sam couldn't help but notice looked so similar that they had probably shopped in the same exact places. As he rummaged through the duffle's contents, he heard something clatter to the ground. Looking down at the floor, he saw a cell phone.

In one quick motion, Sam grabbed it and sat down on the bed to start filing through the contacts.

"Hey! – Uh – Walker!" Sam called out. Dean turned around, toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

"What?" He grunted.

"Cell phone," Sam lifted the phone up to show him. Dean halted mid-brush and took it out of his mouth.

"You think _I_ have one somewhere?" Dean wondered out loud.

"Yeah- I don't know," Sam answered sharply, his expression judgmental of Dean's question. He started scanning through the contacts list.

"What're you doing?"

"Going through the contact list."

"No check your call log and call the last person you called," Dean suggested.

Sam wasn't really sure what it was about this guy, but he consistently felt compelled to take his advice. It was actually less of a compulsion, more of a kneejerk, automatic reaction. Rest assured, if the guy gave him terrible advice or suggestions, obviously he wouldn't take them. So far, however, Sam was finding himself falling in line with the guy's train of logic and thought.

He pressed the call log button and directed it to list the outgoing call contacts.

"Whoa," he murmured.

"What?"

"There's only like one person I ever call, it looks like," Sam said, surprised.

"What's the name – maybe it's me," Dean offered casually. Sam looked up.

"Why would I call you so often? – We obviously spend enough time together given the motel room and the car."

"Whatever - what's the name?"

Sam looked down and cringed.

"It's just a letter."

"What do you mean?"

"It just says the letter, 'D,'" Sam clarified. He lifted the phone up and showed it to him.

"Fantastic. So even if it _is_ me, all we've got is, 'D,'? That's just great," he said bitterly, walking back to the sink and spitting. "Ya gonna call it, or what?" He asked Sam from the bathroom.

"What? Oh, yeah," Sam replied, breaking out of his reverie. He had been overcome by the strangest sensation when he stared at the letter on his phone – like he was close to cracking a memory open, but he just couldn't manage it. He jammed on the, 'send,' button and pressed the cell phone to his ear as Dean walked out of the bathroom.

"You calling it?" Dean asked in an undertone. Sam nodded and listened to the start of the ring. Half a second later, the two of them reacted to the sound of a buzzing noise near the bed.

"You hear it? You got it?" Sam murmured as Dean ducked over to the side of the bed he'd been on and snatched a cell phone from under the bed. He held it up to show Sam.

"Yeah I got it-" Dean pulled it back to look at the screen, "-Sammy."

Dean looked up, an amused grin on his face.

"My name is _not_ Sammy."

"It is! Yes, it is, look!" Dean walked over to Sam and held out the screen. Sam squinted at it: sure enough, it said, 'Sammy.'

"I wouldn't go by, 'Sammy.'"

"Psh, I wouldn't go by 'D,' if it makes you feel any better."

Sam thought for a second, then smacked his forehead and handled his phone again.

"What?" Dean asked, confused.

"Don't answer I want to hear the voice mail on your phone," Sam whispered quickly as Dean's phone lit up and started to vibrate in his hand. "Technically we don't know whose phone is whose – you could be, 'Sammy,' and I could be, 'D,'" Sam whispered again as he waited for the voice mail to click on. Dean nodded his approval and waited, standing next to Sam.

The voice mail clicked on and Sam held his breath.

"You've reached Dean. Leave a message."

Sam heard the beep and ended the call.

"Yeah so your name's Dean," Sam said as Dean dialed 'Sammy,' and placed the phone to his ear.

"Dean?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, looking down as his phone lit up and started to ring.

"No last name?" Dean murmured.

"No you were pretty glib."

"Why the hell do you call me, 'D,' on your phone? What are we, a couple?" Dean murmured with irritation.

"Uh, I don't like you like that," Sam monotoned. Dean looked at Sam sharply.

"I-don't-even-know-if-I-_like_-you," Dean shot back quickly just as Sam's voice mail clicked on. Sam was about to retort, but Dean held up his index finger and shushed him to hear the message.

"You've reached Sam. Leave a message and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks."

Dean pursed his lips in annoyance as he ended the call.

"You go by Sam," he dangled the phone in the air, "Not Sammy."

"I told you I wouldn't have gone by 'Sammy,'" Sam pointed out, feeling justified.

"Whatever I'm more concerned about why we have _pet names_ for each other."

"We have loads of -probably unregistered- guns, knives, and weaponry in both the room and the car, and you're more concerned about pet names?" Sam asked. Dean paced away from Sam, shrugging off the remark. Sam rolled his eyes. "Well, whatever. Obviously, we'll just call each other Dean and Sam from now on."

"Good, yeah."

Dean looked around the room, hands on his hips, thinking.

"So, um. Now what?" Sam asked. Dean looked up at Sam and shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he shrugged, at a total loss. Both Sam and Dean just stood there in the middle of the room, wondering what exactly to do next.

Finally, Dean looked up, his eyebrows lifting into a surprisingly open expression.

"You hungry?"

"Seriously?"

Dean shrugged, his expression clearly communicating the sentiment: _what else are we going to do?_

"Um," Sam looked around the room, then back up at Dean, "Sure, I guess."

…

Dean turned to see Sam duck into the passenger seat next to him. Sam grabbed the law textbook from the floor of the seat and started looking through it as Dean turned the engine over. Shifting into reverse, Dean braced his right arm against the back of the bench seat, landing his hand right behind Sam's head. He couldn't help but notice that Sam didn't seem the least bit threatened by the proximity. Dean lingered on the thought, staring at Sam as Sam stared at the book. Suddenly Sam looked up at Dean.

"What?" Sam asked. Dean still had his arm braced against the seat near Sam.

"Nothin'," Dean responded casually, snapping out of it and tapping the pedal to pull out of the parking spot. He shifted to drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

"I love this car," Dean said suddenly. Sam looked over to him, eyebrows raised.

"Is… That a memory? Or are you just saying that?"

Dean bopped his head, weighing his options.

"Honestly I think it's a little bit of both," he glanced at Sam, honesty written on his face.

"That's good," Sam frowned approval, then picked up the law textbook.

"I like law," he offered.

"No shit."

Sam gave a small smile and dropped the law book on the floor of the passenger seat where he'd found it. Still crouching, Dean heard him say something.

"Sam? What?"

"Look at this-" Sam pulled up from his bent position with a beat-up shoebox in his hands. "It was under the seat."

"What- What are those? Cassettes?" Dean asked, glancing at them. Dean was starting to realize that this buddy of his, Sam, was woefully unaware of the outside world while he was driving. Dean wouldn't have pegged himself as a multi-tasker, but it was quite obvious that _he_ was the driver, _he_ was the one that would decide where they'd go for breakfast, and _he_ was the one Sam wanted to show the cassette tape collection to.

A brief sense of deep responsibility came over Dean, then instantly evaporated.

"Yeah they're cassettes – Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Kansas…" Sam listed off as he read the labels, amused.

"We've got good taste," Dean said, impressed. Sam laughed in response. "What?"

"This is _not_ my taste," Sam chuckled.

"Oh really?" Dean asked, curious. Sam popped a cassette into the player and pressed play. Rolling Stones. "Good choice," Dean offered. Sam nodded. "So what's your taste in music?" Dean asked, hesitantly. He wasn't against getting to know this guy – it might jog their memories. Sam didn't say anything, though, so Dean glanced to the side to look at him. Sam's expression was searching.

"Sam?"

"Yeah. Yeah I… I don't know," Sam finally said, surprised. He looked at the music in the shoebox he was holding in his lap. He gestured to it. "This isn't my taste in music, but I could swear to god I know these bands and their songs – all the lyrics…" He trailed off, then looked up at Dean in confusion. Dean gave Sam an open expression and shrugged.

"Maybe it _is_ your taste, then."

Sam scrunched his face with distaste.

"I really don't think so…"

"All right whatever. How about here?" Dean asked, pointing to a diner up ahead. Sam set the box back down under the seat.

"Yeah sure," he replied casually, settling against the seat back again. Dean clicked the turn signal and angled into the parking lot. Parking the car, he stayed behind the wheel for a few seconds to find his phone and check to see if he'd forgotten anything. He looked up and gave a double-take, realizing Sam was watching him in the passenger seat.

"What?"

"Nothin' I'm just…" Sam faltered for a second, a streak of confusion flashing across his features, "Uh, I'm waiting for you."

Dean twitched a slight smile.

"Okay. I'm ready c'mon," he replied lightly as he opened the driver's door and stepped out. Dean noticed Sam followed him, a small half-step behind, into the restaurant.

Dean was the first to greet the hostess, an attractive brunette with bright blue eyes and a noticeable hour-glass figure, given the black miniskirt and tight polo she wore. Dean flashed a warm smile her way.

"Hi! Welcome to Casey's Diner. How many?"

"Just two of us," Dean answered breezily, "-Maggie," he added graciously, having spotted her name tag.

"Okay great, follow me," she replied, returning the smile and pulling two menus. She started walking past them and Dean took the lead.

"So do you go to school here?" Dean asked, estimating her age to be somewhere in the early twenties. She turned around to look at them.

"Yeah, this is my part-time job," she replied, nodding, as Sam and Dean took their seats at the booth she gestured towards.

"What do you study?" Sam joined in, looking genuinely interested. Maggie gave a crooked smile.

"Law, actually," she answered. Dean gave a slight smirk, almost embarrassed on Sam's behalf as he saw the kid's eyes light up.

"Oh wow that's pretty great – my friend, Sam, here, studies law, too," Dean replied, not missing a beat. Sam glanced at Dean for a second and it dawned on both of them what Dean had just done.

_Okay. So, I'm a fucking _great_ wingman._ Dean thought.

Maggie's attention turned straight to Sam.

"No way, really? Here in Richmond?"

"Oh no, no, we're just passing through. But yeah I study law."

"Where?"

"Um," Sam faltered, realizing he had no idea. Dean had opened the menu and was gazing at it as he felt Sam's eyes fall on him.

"Stanford," Dean provided the answer, still looking at the menu.

"Oh my god that's an amazing school!" Maggie said enthusiastically, gleaming. Dean looked up, finally, and realized Sam was actually blushing. Dean cringed inwardly: _so, Sam wasn't a competent flirt. Good to know._

"Thanks, yeah. Yeah we're just out here to visit, um, some friends."

"Ah okay okay. So, um, do you guys know what you want or should I come back?"

"Oh, uh," Sam, having been distracted, hadn't even looked at the menu, but Dean looked up at Maggie's question.

"Can I get a coffee and the special?" He asked, handing the menu back to her.

"Sure thing. What about you, Sam?" She asked. Sam took two seconds to look through the menu and waved his hand in disregard.

"I'll just… I'll just have the same."

"You sure you don't want more time?" Maggie asked amicably.

"Yeah no the special sounds good," Sam replied, slightly flustered.

"Okay no problem. I'll be back with your orders soon," Maggie said cheerfully and turned around to walk towards the kitchen. She had a spring in her step, and as Dean watched, he could see the slightly affected sashay walk she'd just adopted. Dean smiled with genuine appreciation. He turned to look at Sam, who was looking in the same direction.

"I really wonder when the last time you got laid was…" Dean deadpanned. Sam looked around to Dean and blinked a few times.

"Me too," Sam replied honestly, and breaking into a shy smile. Dean mirrored Sam's expression. "Hey where'd you get Stanford?" Sam asked curiously, tilting his head. Dean leaned back against the booth seat, resting his arm over the back and looked outside through the window.

"Mm I don't know it just came to me," he replied absentmindedly.

"Interesting," Sam murmured. Maggie came back with a pot of coffee and filled their drinks. When she left, Sam rearranged himself in the booth seat, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

"Okay. So. What do we know so far?"

"About us?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Dean leaned forward, unconsciously mimicking Sam, "We woke up in bed together, but we're both decidedly straight if our mutual attraction to Maggie over there is anything to go by."

"Yeah I'm not gay," Sam said bluntly. Dean laughed.

"Me neither. But it's weird that we have pet names for each other. I have no idea what that's about," Dean shook his head in bafflement as he took a sip of his coffee and looked out the window.

"All right. Other than that, though," Sam pressed. "We have a load of weapons. We seem to be obsessed with the occult. It looks like we _live_ in that car-"

"-'67 Impala."

"What?"

"She's a 1967 Impala."

"She?"

"The car."

"The car has a gender?"

"Yes."

At this serious confirmation from Dean, Sam gave a slight smile.

"Ahm, okay. At any rate," Sam gestured an open hand to Dean, indicating that he won't contest Dean's assertions, "We seem to really _live_ in that car."

Dean nodded in agreement.

"Don't forget the fake badges."

"Right."

"Or the classic rock cassette tapes."

"That detail seems less important. Let's stay focused," Sam interjected. Dean shrugged and took another sip of his coffee, hiding his smile behind the mug.

"The other thing is the articles about the deaths here in Richmond."

"-Which we couldn't possibly have committed."

"Right."

The conversation stalled there as the two of them thought about it. Dean sighed and set his coffee down.

"I have a theory," he said with a grimace.

"I'm all ears."

"It's not good."

"Let's hear it."

Dean gritted his teeth for a second, but pushed forward anyway.

"Okay. What if… What if we're, like, partners that solve murders committed by occultists?"

"Yeah that crossed my mind, but Dean – the police do that. Why aren't we _actually_ part of a law enforcement agency?"

"I don't know, but if we're free agents solving murders and everything, it'd make sense that we have so many fake IDs."

Sam chewed his lip, thinking critically about Dean's theory. He brushed his hand through his hair, stressed.

"Well, I mean, it beats thinking that we _are_ murderous occultists," Sam acknowledged. Dean nodded.

"I know I have no memory, but I'm like ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that I am _not_ a murderous occultist."

"Same here," Sam replied. They exchanged meaningful looks and just at that moment Maggie appeared with their plates.

_Writer's Note: Thanks for reading! Please review! ~ Alex Kerr_


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously…_

"_I know I have no memory, but I'm like ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that I am not a murderous occultist."_

_ "Same here," Sam replied. They exchanged meaningful looks and just at that moment Maggie appeared with their plates._

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 3**

Digging into their food, the two of them refrained from further conversation until they were ready to go again. Sam gave a sigh at his half-finished plate and leaned back.

"I think I want to try calling people on my list of contacts."

"What – on your cell phone?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded.

"S'a good idea. Do you have it on you right now?" He asked, his mouth slightly full. Sam held back an expression of disgust at Dean's lack of manners and pulled his cell phone out from his pocket. When he looked up, he saw Dean finish his bite as he pulled his out cell out from his pocket.

"Here – cross-reference the contacts. Hopefully we'll get someone that knows both of us."

Sam took a sip of his coffee, nodding, then took Dean's phone and his own in each hand. He clicked the contact menu for each phone and scrutinized both screens, looking back and forth between them.

"Jesus Christ…" He murmured, off-put. Dean looked at Sam, slightly alarmed.

"What? What is it?"

"Oh no, it's nothing. It's just-" Sam kept scrolling down and comparing the contacts on both his and Dean's phones. "-With the exception of a lot of female first names that end with, 'ie,' on your phone, our contact lists are identical."

Dean tried to hold back a smile about the, 'female first names,' thing, but couldn't help himself.

"Is there a, 'Candie,' in there?" Dean asked, a sly smile surfacing. Sam gave him a judgmental expression, then back down at Dean's phone. A second later, Sam gave a small chuckle.

"What?" Dean asked.

"You _do_ have a, 'Candie,' in here, yeah. Replete with the, 'ie,' ending."

"Ha! And I bet you don't!" Dean teased good-naturedly.

"No," Sam replied, not really taking the bait.

"So now we know you _do_ strike out a lot, huh?" Dean continued. Sam shrugged.

"I do, probably, with girls named, 'Candie,'" Sam murmured. Dean laughed.

"I dunno. Candie seems like a pretty good name to me. I think you're just repressed."

"Shut up," Sam replied easily, clearly not offended, as he continued to scroll down.

"So. Who do you want to call first?" Dean asked. Sam huffed in response.

"I guess we'll just start at the beginning. Work our way down."

Dean nodded, wiping his hands with his napkin, and gestured for his phone. Sam gave it to him.

"All right I'll start with… Bobby."

"Okay I'm doing Caleb," Sam replied.

…

Twenty minutes later, Dean slammed his phone down on the table.

"That's it. That's all. _All_ our contacts are disconnected, unavailable, or _dead_!" Dean whispered vehemently across the table at Sam just after Sam's face fell at the final contact number's recorded message that the phone had been disconnected. He lowered the phone down slowly, forlorn, and stared at it.

"Sam!" Dean smacked the table, angry. Sam jerked in fear, startled, and looked up at Dean. Dean regretted his anger immediately when he saw Sam's wide, desperate eyes. Sam had, unfortunately, been the one to call the most contacts that were dead, which had left him a little more shaken than Dean.

Dean leaned forward and stretched his hand, palm up, out on the table, appealing to the kid. "Hey- Sorry. Sorry, it's fine. We'll figure this out," Dean backtracked. Sam just shook his head in bewilderment, worried.

"God, this is so fucked up," Sam murmured, leaning his elbow on the table and propping his head against his hand. He took a second to stare at the table, then lifted his eyes up to Dean's.

"Yup, yeah it is," Dean sighed, nodding in understanding. He broke the eye contact and looked outside for a few minutes. Dean mulled over the contact names in his head. He blinked slowly a few times, and cocked his head to the side, a thought occurring to him.

"Huh," he grunted. Sam looked up.

"What?"

Dean turned to look at Sam, sizing him up.

"Dean, what?"

But Dean just shook his head minutely, narrowing his eyes on Sam. He leaned forward.

"Give me your phone," he said.

"Why?" Sam asked as he handed it to Dean. Dean just took it and pulled his phone from the table using his other hand. His heart beat sped up a little bit in anticipation of his theory.

"How-" he murmured as he scrolled down his contact list, then Sam's, "-Much older do you think I am than you?"

"Ahm… I don't know. You look like you're in your mid-late twenties…"

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam and nodded his approval at the estimation.

"-And I guess I'm probably, I don't know… twenty-four? Twenty-five?" Sam tried to gauge. Dean looked at Sam and bobbed his head casually. Still scanning through the phones, Dean spoke up again.

"You notice that, besides identical contact names, we both only list one parent?" Dean hinted. Sam sat up straighter in his seat, perplexed.

"Yeah-"

"Our fathers-"

"Yeah-"

Dean found what he was looking for in both phones and made a double-tick sound with his mouth as he turned the displays around to show Sam.

"Our Dads have the same number."

Sam's eyes widened in surprise as he grasped the two phones to compare. Sure enough, both of their phones had the same number under, 'Dad.'

"Whoa," Sam whispered, then looked up at Dean. "So, we're… Brothers?"

Dean shrugged, a small smile playing on his face, looking at the kid. He felt like a puzzle piece had locked into place and something like satisfaction had washed over him. _Yeah. All right. He could be my brother, _Dean thought to himself, becoming accustomed to the thought quite easily.

Never one to pass up a smart ass comment, though, he responded to Sam's question without missing a beat.

"I don't know of any other reason why we'd call the same guy ,'dad.'"

Sam nodded dumbly and dropped the phones on the table. He leaned back and looked at Dean.

"So you're-"

"Your big brother, yeah," Dean grinned.

"We don't look related, though," Sam whispered, a little more lost than Dean cared to see. Why wasn't he as accepting of this as Dean was? At any rate, Dean shrugged.

"Pretty sure we're still brothers."

"I don't remember you," Sam said, a hint of apology in his tone. Dean shook his head.

"I don't remember you, either," he replied bluntly. A few seconds passed as they stared at each other, coming to terms with the revelation.

"I get the pet names thing now, though," Dean offered nonchalantly as he took a sip of his coffee. Sam nodded, reluctantly acknowledging it made sense, now.

"So, we're brothers that pretend to be FBI or Homeland Security in order to stop crazy occultist murderers?" Sam asked, trying to put the pieces together. He looked up at Dean, who grimaced at Sam's words.

"Sounds miserable," Dean murmured with a small chuckle. The two of them sat still, silently thinking about what events could have befallen their family to have led them into their current circumstances.

Sam leaned forward, elbowing the table and cradling his head. Dean snapped out of his reverie to look at Sam with concern.

"Hey you okay?"

Sam sighed.

"I think I'm getting a migraine or something," Sam mumbled. Dean took one last sip of his coffee and pulled out the keys to the Impala. He slid them towards Sam.

"Go ahead to the car - I'll pick up the check up front - you got your money clip?" Dean said gently. Sam nodded slowly and pulled out the money clip for Dean to take, then gripped the keys on the table.

"Okay," Sam breathed. He pivoted slowly towards the aisle, still cradling his head. He gave a couple exhales before drumming up the motivation to stand. He lifted himself up too quickly, though, and felt light-headed. Not a moment later, he felt a steady arm around his waist, balancing him out. He blinked for a second, confirming that it was Dean, before closing his eyes again.

"Um, thanks," Sam said softly, feeling a little awkward.

"It's no problem. C'mon," Dean whispered lightly. He realized he was telling the truth, too: he wasn't feeling awkward about balancing the kid. He was pretty sure he'd help anybody out like this if they had swayed like Sam had upon standing. Something told him that he _had_ helped people out like this before, too. So much so that it just felt kind of natural.

They made their way to Maggie up front and Dean let go of Sam, thinking he would head out to the car. Instead, Sam just leaned against the counter, hunched over with his hand covering his face, as Dean paid the bill. Dean didn't say anything, but inwardly started to worry a little bit more.

"You doin' okay, Sam?" Maggie asked, her cheerful voice now grating against Sam's eardrums. Sam's brief smile translated as a grimace as he felt both Maggie and Dean's eyes on him. Dean turned back to Maggie.

"He's fine," Dean replied airily, betraying nothing. Maggie looked at him and an expression of kind understanding crossed her face. Dean kept up a casual smile until she looked down at the register, at which point he dropped his guard, staring a Maggie with confusion about the weird look she'd given him. When Maggie had pulled the change from the machine, she looked back up and Dean plastered the smile back on his face.

"You said he was your friend – you guys seem more like brothers," Maggie nodded to Sam. Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise as she handed him the money.

"Uh, yeah, sorry. We are," Dean responded dumbly. Maggie pursed her lips into a smile. "How…?" Dean asked, curious. Maggie lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"I've got a brother. S'just… intuition, maybe," she replied simply.

"Oh… Huh. Okay well… Thanks Maggie," Dean gave an uncertain smile, and turned away. Without thinking, he resumed his grasp around Sam's waist. Sam automatically grasped Dean around the shoulders with one arm while still covering his eyes with the other. As Dean opened the doors for Sam to walk through first, he suddenly realized that Maggie was still probably watching them. Dean cringed. He wanted Maggie to think he was hot shit, not a doting big brother. _That_ image was _not_ in his repertoire - he was sure of it.

As they walked outside, the cool breeze felt better, but Sam's head was still throbbing.

"So you get migraines, huh?" Dean said. Sam let out a slow exhale.

"Guess so," he answered miserably. He felt Dean pull the keys from his hand and unlock the door to the passenger seat. As Sam crouched down to get inside, he didn't care enough to bat Dean's hand away from his head. Dean was making sure Sam wouldn't knock it against the roof of the car.

Dean's pace quickened to get around to the driver's seat and get them back to the motel. He opened the door just as he heard Sam shout in pain.

"Sam?" Dean ducked down and got into the front seat. Sam was cringing in pain, his hands spastically gripping his head, breathing heavily against the back seat.

"Shit… Shit I don't-" Sam cried as spikes of light stabbed through his mind and into his vision. His knees slammed against the underside of the dashboard in an effort to curl in against the pain.

"Sam? Sam! C'mon what's going on?!" Dean called, moving in to brace Sam against the seat. Sam gave a gasp, writhing under Dean's grip, and suddenly landed in a bedroom – a nursery, his pain completely forgotten.

Shrouded in silence and darkness, Sam's pupils dilated. He saw a black figure hovering over a crib with its wrist extended out, dripping blood. His vision shifting in and out, Sam backed up against the wall, seemingly paralyzed with fear. The figure turned and looked up, its yellow eyes glowing brightly straight into Sam's.

"You know what you are," it whispered menacingly, "Sam," it said slowly, "Remember what you are!" It hissed.

At this, Sam felt like he was being pushed forward, forced to walk towards the crib to look inside. Terrified, just as he caught sight of the infant with blood on its lips, time sped up: Sam whipped around to see the black figure vanish into thin air, a flash of bright yellow light lit up the room, and Sam looked up, shocked and horrified to see a woman in flames on the ceiling. One instant later, he found himself quietly lying on a bed in the dark. He felt something drip onto his face. He opened his eyes to see a younger woman, now, on the ceiling, mouthing his name, then bursting into flames.

Sam yelled out, "NO!" Then white light blinded him, searing his retinas, as the vision faded out and pain flushed in: sharp, minute blades piercing through his mind.

"SAM!" Dean yelled, worried, as he hovered over his brother. Sam blinked back the light and pain, and opened his eyes as wide as possible several times over to make sure he was back to seeing reality. He wheezed an inhale, feeling almost like he'd been suffocating.

"Sam! Sam – hey - you with me? You with me, buddy?" Dean lowered his voice gruffly, trying to sound less worried than he was. He felt downright emotional about this kid and he had _no_ idea why: there was no _reason_, no _trust_. Yet it was undeniably there.

Sam's pupils rolled in anguish until he zeroed in on Dean's eyes.

"Good, good, Sam, yeah, look at me, look at me," Dean coaxed anxiously. Sam started trembling in the aftermath of the vision and blinked the tears from his eyes. He gripped Dean's forearms loosely, still looking into Dean's eyes, but then felt Dean move one arm to wipe away the tears on his cheeks using his own sleeve. Sam just let him, numb and scared from the vision, his breathes catching and heaving at what felt like the same time.

"Good, you're doing good, just stay with me, okay?" Dean murmured calmly, using the cotton of his sleeve to absorb the water off Sam's face while he tried to get his breathing back to normal. Dean continued holding Sam tightly in an unconscious effort to stop the kid's shakes. Sam did as he was told, though, looking into Dean's eyes, even taking comfort from the guy's touch when he wiped his face off. The implicit message was clear: it was okay between the two of them, but Dean was getting rid of the tear tracks so Sam could save face afterwards.

"You're okay, man, it's okay," Dean whispered, worried. Dean figured seeing any kid like Sam in this much pain and distress would lend Dean to acting this way. Now that he knew, or thought he knew, Sam was his brother, he doubly sure that his behavior was appropriate, given the moment. Still, he was really scared – like nearly panicking scared – at seeing Sam like this.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, Dean observed that, strangely, _this_ was striking fear into him – was setting him off emotionally – more than having lost his entire memory.

Sam gulped back a sob and Dean just kept wiping his hand down the side of Sam's face, finally resting on Sam's pulse. He _never_ would've thought he was the touchy-feely type, but, again, Dean couldn't help being so scared. He needed to calm the kid down precisely because _he_ wanted to calm down.

"Breathe, Sam, just breathe nice and slow breathes, dude, c'mon," Dean whispered patiently, surprised by how calm he sounded (_Like I've had experience doing this?_ Dean thought, slightly disgruntled).

His green eyes maintained still and steady contact with Sam's, and Dean could sense that, despite their lack of memories, Sam was pulling something from it – courage, stability, comfort, _love?_ Dean wondered. He felt it too, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He knew that whatever it was, though, it was acting as an anchor for both of them. He didn't dare turn away. Sam licked his lips and widened his eyes again, then broke contact with Dean to look around the car in bewilderment.

"That," Sam gasped, then looked back into Dean's eyes, "Was _not_ a fucking migraine…" he finished.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief and slowly leaned back against the radio console of the car. He let go of his brace on Sam and Sam relaxed out from under Dean's grip. He was still shivering, but not as much as before.

"You, um. You okay?" Dean asked awkwardly, then pushed himself over the front of the car seat to grab the extra blanket he'd found in the back.

"Yeah," Sam replied, weakly, as he looked over and sorely took the proffered blanket. "Thanks," he whispered hoarsely. He looked down at the seat as he wrapped the blanket around him. Dean just watched Sam without subtlety, carefully observing the kid as he thought.

"Hey. Um, can I see your wrists?" Dean asked lightly. Sam, exhausted, thus easily influenced by suggestion, looked up at Dean, confused, but raised his hands up anyway. Dean bit the inside of his lip when he didn't see anything.

"It looked like a seizure but usually you get medical bracelets for that," Dean explained.

Sam mouthed, "Oh," and nodded, now understanding Dean's request. He stared down into the seat well, slightly traumatized.

"Do you know what it was?" Dean asked, noticing Sam's hunched, almost embarrassed, demeanor. It seemed like Sam knew what it was – and Dean's curiosity got him before he could prioritize it below getting Sam safely back to the motel.

_Okay, that thought was not his own._ What was it about Dean's personality that made him feel like getting anyone _home safe_? He was a confident, athletic, attractive guy in the prime of his life that, he was positive, could hold down a job with a steady paycheck and live a pretty decent life. Feeling the urge to get anyone _home safe_ was a sentiment for… For soccer moms and baseball players. Not people like him.

Dean bit his lip and looked out the window, then back at Sam to see if he'd answer him.

…

Sam was shattered both emotionally and physically. He heard Dean ask him if he knew what it was and couldn't help but cringe.

He hid the expression from Dean, though, so that was good.

Yeah. Sam knew exactly what had just happened. It was like a psychic vision seizure… Or something. No matter what, though, Dean would be mad. He didn't know how he knew that Dean would be mad, he just knew it.

And _this_ is what was shattering Sam emotionally: Dean. Or rather, his gut emotions around the guy. He was a complete stranger to Sam, but Sam was consistently letting his guard down around him, like everything was old hat. He didn't understand why he kept slipping up – he was so much better than that. Or at least, he thought he was.

Sam was especially mortified when he realized the duffle of weapons had been in the back seat of the Impala while Sam had reached out to Dean for the keys. That was just… So incredibly stupid.

Luckily, though, Dean hadn't taken advantage of any of it. He was a good guy, Sam thought, if not a little overly authoritative – _Bossy_, Sam translated into the less formal descriptor with a smile.

While this was a good thing, Sam didn't really appreciate the exercises in, 'building trust,' he'd had to go through with him so far. They seemed to involve a lot of _Sam_ being the vulnerable one. Sadly, Sam realized he had somehow already made so many mistakes in Dean's midst, that Dean no longer saw him as a threat – or even dangerous. And it didn't help that he was noticeably younger (even though he was taller, which Sam kind of hung onto as a point of relative equality between the two of them).

It was jarring and frustrating. Sam sensed a rippingly intense independence in him but somehow Dean turned that wildfire into a campfire. Sam sensed driven to be taken seriously – to be given responsibility – and yet Dean kept watering down his gravitas with levity. And Sam was _letting him_. Because, well, it felt good to smile.

And in the wake of this dynamic, Sam realized he was losing a little of what he knew made him tick – losing what made him competent. He was thoroughly confident that, as he was now, he'd be able to make it if he just took off and _left Dean now_. Start on a new life, born again at twenty-four or twenty-five… Whatever he was.

But, and this is what drove him nuts: he_ really_ didn't want to. He wanted to stay with this guy, Dean, and see this through. He wanted his memories back so he could understand why he was feeling what he was feeling.

And that's why he didn't want to make Dean angry by telling him that it was a psychic vision seizure thing: Dean would want to leave. Sam would want to leave, too, if Dean told him that a seizure he'd just had was, in fact, a psychic vision. Especially given their current circumstances.

Because this psychic vision thing? If Sam was going to try to convince Dean that it was true, then he was going to be throwing all reasonable skepticism - about all the occult stuff they've discovered in the motel - into a blender. Not to mention, if 'magic,' existed, it could be the thing at fault for erasing his and Dean's memories.

Sam swallowed and blinked, feeling ashamed that he was going to sound so incredibly crazy in three, two-

"Yeah I know what it was," Sam hunched in on himself more and gritted his teeth. It'd be maybe like ripping off a band-aid. "It was a vision."

Dean angled himself to face Sam, leaning his back against the driver's side door.

"What does that mean?" Dean asked, not getting it. Sam looked up at him with worried eyes.

"It was a psychic… Vision," Sam clarified, fixing Dean with a deliberate stare. Dean's eyes widened, his mouth forming an 'O.' Dean looked away through the windshield, blinking a few times, then finally letting his indignant anger get the better of him. He turned back to Sam with an accusatory expression and tone.

"So. This whole time, you were lying to me? You _do_ believe in this occult shit." Dean stated, his voice getting louder in anger as the idea rankled at him more than it should have. To be fair, though, Dean didn't know if he was pissed about the occult stuff or the idea that Sam had been lying to him. Either way, Dean jammed the ignition into the car and shifted into gears with sharp, quick movements. Sam watched Dean, a little intimidated.

"Sam?!" Dean prompted as he sped down the street back to their motel.

"Yeah. No, Dean, I haven't been lying to you," Sam replied earnestly, suddenly on the verge of tears. This simple, elementary sentence made Sam realize how desperate he was. All defenses down, he was telling the truth, hoping so much that Dean would either believe him or forgive him. He felt so guilty and at fault for stringing Dean along with him this far on the premise that they were two _rational_ adults.

But now Sam was starting to buy in to the crazy occult thing, and then Dean would leave.

"Really? Because you're suddenly so sure that psychic visions are real-"

"Yeah because I just _had_ one."

"Sam, no you didn't. This shit isn't real. You need to get a grip."

"I'm telling you, Dean, it was a psychic vision. And if you think about, it makes sense: if something like magic didn't erase our memories, what the hell did?"

"Are you _listening_ to yourself right now?!" Dean yelled back, slamming the dashboard of the Impala and making Sam jump a little, staring at the spot Dean hit. Dean looked like he was about to say something, but stopped and glanced at Sam before turning into the motel parking lot.

"All right. Okay. What did you see?" Dean asked obnoxiously, looking to debunk the vision.

"A psychic vision-?" Sam asked, confused. The car pulled into the spot, Dean turned the engine off, but only angled himself to look at Sam again. He made no move to get out the car, and so Sam didn't either.

"Yeah, Sam, I get that you think you had a psychic vision," he almost sneered, "But please – share with the class – what your vision of the _future_ is!" Dean waved his hand in front of him, sarcastically staring out at it with wonder.

At this, Sam realized Dean was going to write him off, no matter what he was going to say.

Sam stared at the seat well in front of him, suddenly trying to hold back tears. He _knew_ he was right about this, but Dean had just cornered him into a no-win situation: if he didn't tell Dean about the vision, Dean wouldn't believe he'd had one. If he _did_ tell Dean about the vision, Dean would tell him he's insane. _Dean seemed to be equally suited for law_, Sam thought miserably.

Sam swallowed a few times, still staring at the seat well, trying to get enough courage to tell Dean about his vision.

"Sam. Any time, now, dude. Either you had a vision or you didn't," Dean put his arms up, "And I have all the time in the world…" He added disdainfully, looking out through the windshield. Just as he turned away, he missed seeing Sam's tears start to fall. At first, Sam had started tearing up over Dean's obvious intent to humiliate him after he'd spilled his marbles about the vision. But then he started thinking about the women on the ceiling and an unbeknownst, _random_ well of emotion unlocked and flooded him.

* * *

_Writer's Note: I'm having a ton of fun writing this story, not gonna lie. Anyone familiar with my writing knows I'm a whore for hurt/comfort, so that was obviously this chapter (and there'll probably be more in the future)._

_Please review! Please please please review! Also, please feel free to let me know if you find any steps/revelations the boys should have gone through by now – or should go through in the future. I'm aiming for realism, here, so including those steps in future chapters - or editing past chapters - would be incredibly helpful. Plus, it'd aid in improving the story's overall quality – which I'm naturally incentivized to do._

_Also though, just as an fyi, the trunk of weapons reveal is plotted out – so don't worry about that – it's definitely forthcoming. _

_Thank you so much for reading! Cheers! ~ Alex Kerr_


	4. Chapter 4

_Previously…_

"_Sam. Any time, now, dude. Either you had a vision or you didn't," Dean put his arms up, "And I have all the time in the world…" He added disdainfully, looking out through the windshield. Just as he turned away, he missed seeing Sam's tears start to fall. At first, Sam had started tearing up over Dean's obvious intent to humiliate him after he'd spilled his marbles about the vision. But then he started thinking about the woman on the ceiling and some random well of emotion unlocked._

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 4**

"I… I-" Sam stuttered, trying to start telling Dean what the vision was; knowing he was walking into a rhetorical trap. He couldn't hold back a sob as he grasped his chest and pulled forward, heaving in frustration. The memory of the vision itself evoked fear and… _Grief?_ Sam realized with surprise. _God, this is overwhelming, _he thought, as he fell apart in the passenger seat.

Dean whipped his head back to Sam, completely shocked to see Sam in such emotional turmoil. He had no idea he was going to have this effect on the kid. If he had known, Dean wouldn't have pushed him. Not even _that_ was a great excuse, though, Dean thought, as, psychic or not, Sam had had a seizure; he should've realized that Sam needed to recover, not get yelled at, cornered, and dismissed by a virtual stranger.

Dean got out of the car and walked around. As he approached, he glanced at Sam's hunched over form through the windshield and felt a stab of regret. He reached the passenger side door and wrenched it open, revealing Sam, holding the blanket against his chest, curled slightly down towards his lap, flat-out crying.

Dean, again not really knowing what to do, grimaced with sympathy and crouched down next to Sam. He lightly touched the kid's shoulder.

"Hey Sam – Sam? I'm sorry," Dean said calmly. He realized he was being entirely honest, too.

Sam didn't flinch at Dean's touch on his shoulder and something inside Dean told him it wasn't enough. He bit his bottom lip, nervous to enter into this kid's personal space, but…

"Sam? I shouldn't have yelled at you liked that," Dean toned as he lifted himself up next to Sam on the seat, pushing Sam more towards the middle. "You just had a seizure – whether it's psychic or not-" Dean reached his left arm out further so he was grasping Sam's curved-in, trembling shoulders. "-You didn't deserve that," Dean finished. Sam was still crying, but Dean saw him nod his head a little bit. Dean squeezed Sam reassuringly, "Okay?" He asked, hoping to allay Sam's distress. Seriously, Dean's heart was aching on Sam's behalf right now – he just wanted Sam to stop crying. Like _right now_, because every sob or heavy intake of breath coming out of the kid was wreaking havoc on _his_ senses.

"O-Okay," Sam stuttered between breaths, causing Dean to hold Sam closer still. He saw Sam trying to rub his eyes free of tears. Some detached part of Dean's brain chimed in: _this has _got_ to have been the worst ten-minute car ride for Sam ever_.

"I'm really sorry," Sam sniffed, hesitantly leaning back against Dean's chest. Surprised, Dean just pursed his lips with consideration, figured Sam was just tired, and decided he'd just go with it. Dean pressed Sam against him – letting Sam know that it was okay to lie against him. _Just this once,_ Dean thought roughly.

"The vision was of these two women burning alive on a ceiling," Sam managed.

"Oh god," Dean replied with disgust, unconsciously wrapping both hands around Sam, who'd now, more or less, huddled into him. Dean let his chin rest on Sam's head as he considered such bizarre deaths. He blinked a few times, clearing his thoughts, and picked his head up to see if he could see Sam's face. "You okay?"

Sam rubbed his face and sniffed into the blanket still wrapped around him. He nodded and looked at Dean with wide open, _trusting_ hazel eyes. Dean, for his part, almost rolled his own eyes in wonder – _how the hell was this kid_ _still even alive at twenty-five_?

"Okay. You should sleep," Dean whispered. He wasn't moving from the position they were in: something told him that he needed to wait for Sam to be the one to break apart.

Dean's right arm was wrapped around Sam's waist, his left around his shoulders, and he felt Sam's body slowly start to relax. Muscles went limp and Sam weighed more heavily against Dean. Strangely, Dean only gripped Sam tighter at this. Normally, he'd imagined himself as the guy that begs away from physical embraces – especially if the recipient starts to give subtle body language hints that he no longer needs it. _I guess… Not today?_ Dean thought.

A few short minutes later, Sam was being helped into the motel room and onto the bed. Sam's face was flush with embarrassment, shocked that he had gotten so overly emotional in the car – and had actually _accepted_ Dean's comfort tactics. The memory made him shiver with mortification. They were _strangers_ to each other, still. To boot, Sam was nearly certain that they'd both, soon, be splitting ways anyway.

Sam would stay there and learn about monsters, visions, and how to use those weapons; Dean, to go be a safe, normal and reasonable human being.

Sam pulled up the covers in bed and ground his head into the pillow while Dean turned on the TV and settled above the covers next to him. Sam would give anything to be able to follow Dean into, 'normal,' but it was too late: that vision, Sam knew, meant something. He wasn't going to give it up – and he was going to get their, or at least _his,_ memories back.

As he drifted off to sleep, Sam wondered what the two of them, _with_ memories, would have thought of what had happened so far today.

…

Dean flipped through the channels on the television, having difficulty finding much to interest him. He looked over at Sam, sleeping soundly next to him, and heaved a sigh. _This is so weird_, he thought, and lifted himself off the bed. He meandered over to Sam's duffle and started to rummage through it, curious. He wasn't worried Sam would wake up and catch him: it's not like Sam would have a sense of propriety over items he didn't even know he owned. Dean's hand landed on the gun Sam had leveled against him that morning. He wrapped his hand around it and pulled it out. He examined it and felt confident that it was a comfortable weight, effective until fifteen, maybe twenty feet with average wind shear, and well-maintained – no metal degradation on the exterior. The latter observation prompted Dean to see if there was rust or build-up in the interior, and without warning, his hands acted of their own accord by sliding the cartridge out.

"Whoa," Dean murmured, looking at the cartridge in one hand, the empty gun, with its barrel slid back, in the other. He slowly set the cartridge and the empty gun down on the table, thinking. "Um," he murmured, turning around to look outside at the car. "Yeah okay," he whispered, and grabbed the keys to the Impala on the way out.

Five minutes later, Dean was sitting on the floor with the bag of weapons he'd found in the back seat of the Impala. He pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and, again, his hands acted of their own accord in an act of disassembly. Dean smiled, almost thrilled at this discovery. Not only was it pretty cool to watch his own hands expertly maneuver around these weapons, but Dean was also feeling a wave of self-assurance flow through him as he did so.

He pulled out more of the weapons, disassembling them and cleaning them, all the while feeling like he was replenishing his reserves of calm control. He was deriving pleasure out of this – this feeling of being prepared.

Not once did it occur to him that these weapons served an evil purpose. In his hands, these weapons represented security; the ability to provide protection and safety.

When he was done, Dean surveyed the spread of weapons around him. He bet he was a good shot, he thought idly. His eyes lingered on the sawed-off's rounds lying in a neat line to his right. Squinting for a second, he picked one up and examined it. Slowly and carefully, he twisted the cap of the shell off. Small white pebbles fell off onto his lap.

"What the…" Dean whispered, wiping the substance off, then stopping when he recognized it. "Salt?" He muttered to himself in confusion. He pressed a finger against the substance, picking up a few specks, and touched it to his tongue. "Yeah that's salt," he confirmed out loud, absently talking to himself. He placed the cap back on the shell and settled it next to the rest. He placed his hands on the floor behind him to brace himself as he leaned back, thinking. He tried to connect the dots, but it was a lost cause. He had no memory: he was just going through automatic motions. He sighed and looked at the clock: three-thirty pm. Sam would probably be waking up soon. Dean looked back at the weapons, debating whether to just leave them there on the floor.

If he left them there, Sam would wake up, see them, and obviously realize that Dean had been handling these lethal tools while he'd been asleep for, like, four hours. And a stranger (brother or not) playing with guns three feet away from his sleeping form would probably be a disturbing thought.

Dean decided he'd pack the weapons up again and maybe check the fridge to see if there was any food.

…

Sam woke up in bed and leaned over to look at the alarm clock: a few minutes past four pm. He'd slept for four hours. He looked around for Dean, hoping the man hadn't already deserted him.

"Dean?" He called out blearily.

"Yeah, in the kitchen," Dean called out. Sam didn't see him, but his confirmed presence allowed Sam to relax a little bit. He grunted as he pulled the covers off of him and stepped his feet onto the ground, sitting up on the side of the bed. He rubbed his face, feeling surprisingly fresh even though he could tell he ordinarily hated waking up in the late afternoon. It was a weird time to wake up.

"You okay?" Dean asked, and Sam turned around. Dean had stepped over to the kitchen-bedroom threshold to check on him.

"Yeah, good," Sam replied glibly.

"Hungry?" Dean asked. Sam, just then, noticed Dean was holding a spatula.

"Mm… Sure," Sam said groggily, blinking, "What're you making?" He asked as he stood up. Dean walked back into the kitchen and Sam padded into the area, folding his arms.

"Eggs," Dean said simply as he effortlessly flipped a fried egg over to heat the other side. Still looking down at the pan, he spoke up again. "Hey you want to hear something cool?"

"What?"

"You know the weapons duffle in the back and here in the room?"

"Yeah?" Sam replied, a slight sense of dread coming over him at the thought of them.

"I know how to dismantle and clean them," Dean said, a bright smile on his face as he looked up at Sam. Sam gave him a disgruntled expression, not understanding Dean's apparent pride in knowing how to handle lethal weapons. "Oh c'mon it's kinda cool," Dean replied to Sam's expression, holding out the spatula. Sam just shook his head slowly, eyeing the eggs. "Whatever. You should try it yourself and see if you know how to do it, too."

Sam coughed sleepily and sniffed.

"Okay maybe later," Sam said, his lack of interest evident. "Where'd you get the eggs?"

"I don't know they were just in there," Dean replied, gesturing to the small fridge, again with the spatula. Sam nodded and walked over to the tiny round table on the other side of the kitchenette. Dean stood over the stove. After a few minutes, Dean glanced at Sam, who seemed to be zoned out in thought. Dean let it be and continued cracking eggs.

"I'm, um, sorry…" Sam started, and Dean looked over at Sam expectantly. It sounded like Sam had more to say, so Dean remained quiet. "I'm sorry about how, um, emotional I've been," Sam finished. He picked at the table top, unable to meet Dean's eyes. "I don't think – It's not what I'm usually like…" He added.

Dean's expression dipped into thought at Sam's words. He shook his head slowly.

"Don't worry about it," he finally said, making sure he sounded light-hearted, then flipped another egg over.

"I don't know where it's coming from–" Sam said, still trying to clear the air despite Dean's dismissal.

"I don't think it's your fault. Our memories have been wiped, right?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Wait let me finish. Our memories have been wiped, but that doesn't mean we're not still reacting to stuff like we would if we actually _had_ our memories."

Sam elbowed the table and propped his head against his hand.

"So, we're just… Accidentally triggering emotions?" Sam summarized, somewhat doubtful. Dean shrugged and looked at Sam.

"Yeah, like, raw feelings – like we're reacting to stuff on autopilot," Dean clarified, finishing up with the eggs and placing a plate down in front of Sam. He grabbed two slices of buttered toast from another plate and set them down on Sam's plate.

"Thank you," Sam murmured, apparently always one to remember his manners. Dean didn't even acknowledge it, though, as he turned back around to fix his own plate. Sam looked down at his food, studying it idly, as Dean finally walked over to sit at the table across from Sam. Sam looked at Dean's plate, then his. With a small jerk of surprise, he sat up straighter, confused.

"What?" Dean asked, noticing Sam's behavior.

"You made mine over easy," Sam said, almost stunned, then looked up at Dean.

"Yeah-?" Dean asked, not understanding, and giving Sam a face indicating that he thought Sam was bizarre. Sam nodded at Dean's plate.

"-But you made yours over hard."

Dean looked down at their plates, then back up at Sam.

"Whoa I didn't even know I was doing that…" Dean whispered. "See? Autopilot," Dean sighed, slightly pleased by the unexpected evidence that supported his theory. Sam huffed and picked up his flatware.

"So, if that's true, then these, um, feelings, are clues, right?" Sam ventured. Dean took a bite and looked at Sam, nodding. He swallowed and gave a small cough.

"Ahem, yeah. I think so. I mean, now we know that you like eggs over easy and I like them over hard," Dean threw out, slightly amused. "Useless fact number eleventy billion that we're probably going to find out through this thing," he added jokingly. Sam gave Dean a tight smile in response.

"That's not just it. It tells us you've done this before," Sam said seriously.

"What? Made eggs?" Dean challenged. "I could probably have told you that I've made eggs before."

"No, like," Sam tried not to blush, "For _me_. You've made eggs – like for you _and I_ before."

Dean looked at Sam perceptively, then shrugged, wiping his hands with his napkin.

"Yeah, it makes sense, though, if we're brothers," he shrugged.

Sam nodded a little bit.

"It does, but… I think we're like… Closer than most brothers," Sam said, still trying to stave off the sense of discomfort he felt in telling a stranger that he thinks he's attached to him. Because it really was just flat-out embarrassing.

He watched Dean closely, praying to God he wouldn't take it the wrong way and reject him outright. Dean folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking out the window. A few seconds passed and Sam felt the need to clarify.

"Dean-"

"No I think you're right," Dean finally mumbled. Sam blinked.

"Really?" Sam asked, surprised, relief flooding through him. Dean looked at Sam and cringed a little bit. Sam was terrible at hiding his emotions… Or maybe Dean could just read him really well – either way, Dean didn't want Sam to look so hopeful.

"Well, yeah. Gut feelings aside," Dean paused for emphasis, indicating that he obviously didn't want to talk about the, 'raw emotions,' _he'd_ been experiencing, "-if you take in the circumstances, I mean, we're in our twenties and sharing a bed, we have the same contact numbers in our phones, we seem to _both_ live in that car – given _your_ law book and _my_ cassette tapes –" Dean paused again. "I didn't even think about the fact that I was making eggs for more than one person," Dean added quickly, slightly annoyed that he had been so unaware of his own actions. Sam looked up, confused.

"How did you not know that?" Sam asked, comically judgmental. Dean didn't find it funny.

"I don't know!" He waved his hands at the table, "I-I just started making eggs and didn't stop at two…!" He whined. Sam gave a brief laugh and took another bite.

"Well, for whatever it's worth, they're good," Sam muffled a response despite the food in his mouth.

"Thanks, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes and crossed his arms again. He settled down a little and began thinking about Sam's seizure.

"So… You were kinda wrecked after your seizure," Dean said tentatively. He saw Sam freeze for a second, then continue eating. "Do you think it was just the effect of the seizure or like… What you saw?"

Dean and Sam both realized they were treading on shaky ground. Dean had obviously chosen his words carefully so as not to trigger a launch into debating whether monsters were real or not. Sam, not yet at a hundred percent, was thankful for it. He contemplated Dean's question, finally deciding on an answer and leaning back in his chair.

"It was what I saw," Sam stated softly yet confidently. Replaying the memory of the vision, Sam suddenly felt his heart clamp down on him, but he shook it off.

"The women on the ceiling," Dean clarified. Sam winced at Dean, knowing it didn't sound good.

"Yeah," he admitted slowly. Dean nodded, thinking.

"Okay, so…" He started and paused, considering his words, "So, memory or no memory, seeing someone burn to death is pretty scary…" Dean trailed off, justifying Sam's reaction in the car earlier. Sam shook his head. "What?" Dean prompted.

"It's… It was something else," Sam replied softly, then looking up at Dean with worry.

"What do you mean?"

"I think I knew the women," Sam answered immediately, quickly, trying to get the confession out as fast as possible. Dean's eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, and he broke eye contact to look around the kitchen. He frowned, then looked back at Sam, squinting with skepticism.

"So, what, you think you're remembering?"

"Um…"

"-Because remembering the past isn't like having a psychic vision of the future," Dean added, hoping to convince himself that Sam wasn't bonkers.

Sam caught the subtle inference in Dean's words and seized on it.

"So if I said I was remembering memories in that seizure, and that it wasn't a psychic vision, you'd believe me?"

Dean gave Sam an unappreciative expression, not pleased that Sam had just read _him_ so well. Finally, he shrugged.

"Maybe? I don't know," he trailed off. "But I'll tell you one thing – if we have to have seizures like the one you had in the car in order to remember, I'm not really sure if I _want_ to remember."

"Yeah that's not a bad point," Sam acknowledged under his breath. He bit his lip, thinking about what he was going to say next. He didn't want to give Dean more ammunition against him, but he needed to talk this out.

"The only problem is that I saw them burning _on ceilings_," Sam started, and Dean turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Even if they _were_ memories, when was the last time you saw something defy gravity?"

"You're sure it was the ceiling?"

"Yeah."

"For both of them?"

"Yeah. There's more, too…" Sam started, then stopped himself. Alarmed, he looked up at Dean. He didn't want to tell Dean about the black figure with yellow eyes – or the infant licking its bloody lips. Too late, though.

"More? What else happened?" Dean demanded. His voice didn't sound angry, though, just… Urgent.

Sam grimaced, regretting his slip of the tongue. He sighed and wiped his bangs back.

"Don't call me crazy, okay?" Sam asked genuinely. Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay um. The first thing I saw, I was in a nursery. A black figure was hovering over a baby's crib. It was bleeding into the crib, into the infant's mouth."

"Ew," Dean grunted, disgusted. Sam ignored his reaction and continued.

"The black figure turned around, looked at me. It had yellow eyes, and it told me to remember who I was. Then I looked up, saw a woman on the ceiling, flames, you know-" Sam trailed off. "You know the rest."

"Was the second woman in the same nursery?"

"No the second woman was just in a bedroom; I got zapped to another place where I had my eyes closed on a bed. I opened them and then – you know – the woman was on the ceiling."

"-And you think you knew these women? Like in real life?"

Sam moved around in the chair, uncomfortable with this question – uncomfortable about what his answer was going to be.

"Yeah, like… Gore factor aside, even talking about it right now is making my heart race."

"Right now?" Dean asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Sam winced.

"What… Um," Dean inwardly rolled his eyes at the question he was about to ask. He just wasn't into feelings, but like Sam had said earlier: they were clues. "Heart racing out of…? Fear?"

Sam clattered the flatware down on his plate and looked at Dean with reluctance. He wasn't into _explaining_ his emotions this blatantly, either.

"No. I mean, a little bit of it is fear. But when I was in the car, it felt more like… Grief. Coupled with, you know…" Sam waved a hand to Dean, but Dean shook his head.

"No, what?"

"Well, you were telling me I was crazy," Sam said softly, slightly embarrassed to be letting on that Dean's words had cut through his defenses so easily; that his words contributed to Sam's breakdown earlier.

Dean's heart gave an involuntary twinge.

"Oh, right," he said, understanding. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. Really," Dean added genuinely. He hadn't known it was going to be so easy to hurt Sam's feelings.

"No, like. You didn't know I'd react like that. It's fine," Sam waved him off. "_I_ didn't know I was going to react like that," Sam added wonderingly.

The conversation lulled then, into silence. A few minutes passed as the two of them finished eating. Dean finished first and leaned back in his chair, looking at Sam.

"You think we have issues?" Dean asked, quirking a smile. Sam looked like a deer in headlights when he lifted his eyes to meet Dean's.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, you know. Between us. As brothers."

Sam chewed his food in thought, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"-And we're, like, triggering emotions that relate to those issues without knowing about it?" Sam clarified. Dean shrugged and nodded. Sam thought about it more, then returned his own shrug.

"Yeah. Could be," Sam replied casually. His face flushed as he thought about the core reason behind why he had been so upset in the car. He screwed his face up in distaste.

"What?" Dean prompted, having read Sam, again, like a book, and knowing something was off. Sam turned to Dean with a confused expression, then leaned forward as if ready to take something on.

"Okay. Can I be bluntly honest with you here?"

"Um, sure," Dean replied cautiously.

"I feel like I'm a really independent person."

Dean licked his lips, trying to hold back a condescending smile.

"Uh huh, okay," he replied, managing to keep a straight face.

"But, for some reason, I'm… I was really…" Sam cringed inside, thinking he'd regret saying this, yet acknowledging that it'd probably be helpful to both of them if they wanted to work together on getting their memories back.

"What?" Dean prompted, his face open and accepting. Sam looked at him and sighed.

"I was freaking out a little bit that you'd, um, just leave," Sam stuttered out.

* * *

_Writer's Note: Thank you for reading - Please please review & let me know what you're thinking! Cheers! ~ Alex Kerr_


	5. Chapter 5

_Previously…_

"_Okay. Can I be bluntly honest with you here?"_

_ "Um, sure," Dean replied cautiously._

_ "I feel like I'm a really independent person."_

_ Dean licked his lips, trying to hold back a condescending smile._

_ "Uh huh, okay," he replied, managing to keep a straight face._

_ "But, for some reason, I'm… I was really…" Sam cringed inside, thinking he'd regret saying this, yet acknowledging that it'd probably be helpful to both of them if they wanted to work together on getting their memories back. _

_ "What?" Dean prompted, his face open and accepting. Sam looked at him and sighed._

_ "I was freaking out a little bit that you'd, um, just leave," Sam stuttered out._

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 5**

Immediately Dean's face scrunched in judgmental confusion and Sam felt doubly worse at his confession.

"And go where?" Dean blurted.

"Um, I don't know."

"You're not making sense," Dean said, shaking his head, effectively blowing his brother off. Sam rolled his eyes in irritation, slightly angry that Dean wasn't understanding him. He was either being stubbornly ignorant of Sam's feelings, or just totally inept with regards to them.

"Okay," Sam started, coming to terms that he'd have to be more explicit for Dean, whatever the reason. "I'm saying that, in the car, I thought you'd think I was a freak and just leave."

"Okay," Dean matched Sam's impatient tone, "First, you're _obviously_ a freak," Dean couldn't help but rib the kid for using the word, 'freak,' and noticed with satisfaction that Sam had reacted with a small smile. "Secondly, tell me, genius, where exactly I'd go if I left here?"

Along the lines of this conversation, Dean and Sam noticed that they didn't want to put it quite as plainly as saying, '_you_,' or, '_me_,' after the word, 'leave.' They both knew the subtext, though, and both of them were feeling its significance. They simply had no memories to rely on that would _prove_ its significance.

Sam shrugged and glanced up at Dean.

"I don't know. Like you'd leave to start a new life or something," he said in a small voice, again slightly embarrassed to sound so vulnerable. Dean appraised Sam's demeanor and a sense of compassion spread through him from out of nowhere.

"Sam-"

"Dean, even you just said earlier that you weren't sure if you even wanted your memories back," Sam added plaintively.

"You said it was a good point!" Dean shot back.

"Yeah, but…" Sam trailed off, then looked away.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips, and raised his hands in front of him.

"Okay, chill out. Listen, okay?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to work together to figure this thing out and, hopefully, get our memories back. Now, it's the twenty-third of January, right?"

"Yeah-"

"Yeah and the guy at the front desk said we're paid up for a further three weeks?"

"Yeah."

"Okay so that gives us…" Dean started calculating, "until the… twelfth –?"

"Thirteenth," Sam corrected idly.

"-the thirteenth of February – to do that," Dean finished.

"Okay and what about after?" Sam pressed.

"Well by that time we should have our memories back," Dean replied quickly, unsure of what Sam was asking.

"No I mean, what if we come up with nothing?"

"I'm sure we'll come up with something," Dean assured lightly, waving his hand as if dismissing Sam's question. Still, a flicker of annoyance had flashed through Dean.

"Yeah but what if we don't, Dean?" Sam pressed, causing Dean's annoyance to flesh itself out in his expression.

"Well, Jesus, I don't know, Sam!" He replied vehemently. "What would _you_ have us do if we don't figure it out?"

Sam shook his head and shrugged, slightly dismayed with himself that he had pushed Dean.

"Whatever," Dean said, calming down. "Three weeks seems like a solid amount of time to figure this out. We come up with nothing, we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it," Dean outlined. Sam seemed reluctant while he Dean had been speaking, though. "Okay? Sam?" Dean searched for his brother's confirmation. _Come with me on this, dude,_ Dean thought.

"Yeah okay," Sam replied, feeling empty. Dean's plan of action didn't settle his doubts or fears about what the future would hold for either of them. However, he didn't want to go into it because he didn't know _why_ it was that he felt that way. So he just let it go, for the time being.

Dean paced back and forth in front of the bed while Sam studied the computer.

"Hey- _Hey_," Dean snapped his fingers urgently at Sam, breaking his brother's concentration. Sam looked up, slightly alarmed. "Our last name is Winchester-!" Dean whispered, then clipped himself off. "Hey! Uhh," Dean's loud voice cut through the room.

Sam mouthed the name, 'Sam Winchester,' trying it on for size. He looked back up at Dean, realizing he was holding his phone against his ear, probably leaving a message on someone's phone. "-Uh, Dad," Dean enunciated awkwardly, uncertainty in his voice. Sam tried to hold off a laugh at how awkward he knew this voice mail would probably sound. Dean turned to look at Sam as he continued speaking into the phone, "So, _Sammy_," Dean winked at Sam and Sam gave him an exaggerated thumbs up, "-and I are… in… Richmond, Virginia. We're not sure… _How_ … We got here. So. Um, please give us a call," Dean finished with an airy tone of voice. Sam couldn't help but start snickering in the background. "-Whenever you can – but as soon as possible would be nice," Dean added, starting to cringe, and looking back to Sam for support, but instead finding his brother giving him sarcastic encouragement about the quality of his message. "Okay. So. Thanks, um, father," Dean finished formally. He clicked, 'end,' on the call and threw the phone on the bed like it was a dead animal. Sam had composed himself enough to look back at the computer and shoot Dean a deadpanned one-liner.

"That was solid gold, Dean. I don't think anyone would have heard that message and thought you sounded norma-"

" Yeah," Dean drawled, cutting Sam off. He moved over to sit across from Sam at the table and grabbed some of the loose sheets of paper to look over. "S'kinda the point, though, right?"

"Well you could've just screamed into the phone," Sam mumbled, huffing a laugh at the thought.

"Yeah if we want to give the guy a heart attack," Dean replied.

"Mm," Sam murmured.

"You find anything on the computer? Online?"

"Yeah, I did, but you're not gonna like it," Sam sighed, and looked up at Dean.

"Hit me."

"I've been going through our browsing histories and recent downloads…"

"Uh huh?"

"Yeah and, besides one of us appreciating Busty Asian Beauties-"

"-Yeah that's probably me-"

"Look at this," Sam ignored Dean and turned the screen around. Dean squinted and leaned forward.

"Wh-What… What is this, _latin_?" Dean asked, accidentally sounding somewhat offended. Sam gave him a look.

"Yeah, calm down," he replied. Dean shot a warning glance at Sam, then went back to looking at the website. It was just an blanket html script of latin words on it.

"Um, you want to give me some context here?"

"Yeah, but hold on, you see those tabs? Click on them."

Dean clicked on them, and found Latin-based text after Latin-based text – no title, just blank html code of verse.

"Okay-? And this was in the browsing history?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. Dean angled the lap top closer to him so he could use the keyboard.

"All right so all these pages have a root web site, right?"

"Yeah that's what I think you're not going to like. Click on the last tab."

Dean clicked on it and heaved a tired sigh of disgust.

"Exorcisms?"

"Mmhm," Sam confirmed. Dean took a couple of seconds and wiped his face.

"Well, I mean, that's okay. We know that, with memories, we're obsessed with the occult. This just lends itself to that, I suppose."

Sam grimaced at Dean apologetically.

"What?" Dean asked, now worried. Sam licked his lips and leaned forward, nodding at the computer.

"Click on any of the tabs and read out the first line," he instructed. Dean looked at him, confused, but picked a tab in the middle and read the first line.

"Okay, um, Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta dia- diabo-" Dean started stuttering.

"-Diabolica, ergo draco maledicte," Dean looked up, shocked: Sam wasn't looking at the computer. Sam continued, nodding his head at Dean with wide eyes, "-et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te, cessa deciphere humanas creaturas eisque aeternae perditionis-," Sam reeled out the words fluidly in what sounded like perfect pronunciation.

Dean pushed the laptop down a little bit with irritation.

"Shut up," Sam stopped speaking, " Okay, how are you doing that?" Dean asked seriously.

"Swear to god, it just comes to me," Sam said, sounding a little distraught himself. "I know the other ones by heart, too."

"No way," Dean murmured, hoping to call Sam out. He pushed back the laptop again and choose another tab of Latin. "Okay. Regna terrae, cantata Deo, psallite Domino-"

Sam sighed and took up the challenge.

"-qui fertis super caelum caeli ad Orientem ecce dabit voci Suae vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem Deo, Deus caeli, dues terrae, humiliter majestate gloriae-"

"Okay _stop_," Dean closed the laptop, sick of reading the lines of Latin matching Sam's words perfectly. Sam flashed a small smile, his dimples deepening.

"Sorry," he said quietly, "I was a little upset, too, when I realized I had them memorized, too."

"A _little_?" Dean asked, eyes widening at his brother's understatement.

"Well, what? You know how to dismantle and clean _guns_," Sam countered. "That's discomfiting, but you were okay with it."

"Yeah but guns are… Guns aren't meant to _exorcise demons_, Sam," Dean shot back. Sam shrugged.

"Whatever," he replied. Dean gave him a double-take, his expression clearly indicating he thought Sam had a few screws lose. "Hey, though, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

"What?" Dean asked, bothered.

"Uh, doesn't this lend itself to the idea that supernatural stuff is real?"

"No," Dean said emphatically.

"No?"

"No, it lends itself to the idea that you're just crazier than I am."

"So, what? Shooting ghosts is less crazy than exorcising demons?" Sam shot back. Dean turned sharply to look at Sam like he was absolutely crazy.

"What the hell are you talking about? I don't shoot _ghosts_."

Sam repositioned himself in his seat, slightly excited about the next thing he was going to tell Dean.

"According to some of our docs on the computer, yeah you do-" Sam's eyes lit up, nodding and smiling against Dean's look of complete contempt.

"Sam, no, where are you _getting_ this-"

"Hear me out listen. I'd show you on the computer," Sam cocked his head and nodded towards it, "But you closed it… So, I'm just gonna tell you. You know you said the shotgun had shells with rock salt in them?"

"Yeah," Dean replied slowly.

"Yeah, so, it said in one of the docs that salt was used as a repellant against evil spirits – _ghosts_."

"All right. You really want to do this?" Dean asked, psychologically bracing himself.

"Do what?"

"Talk about the whole monsters thing," Dean answered. Sam winced, looked at the lap top, then back at Dean beseechingly. He knew this dilemma would create an impasse between the two of them and Sam felt helpless. His conviction that monsters were real might cost him the companionship of – literally - the only person he knew. A spark of hope flicked through Sam - maybe he _could_ convince Dean; there was only one way to find out.

Sam sighed and wiped his hand through his hair.

"Yeah let's talk about it," he finally replied.

…

Two hours later, Sam and Dean were still at it, and only one thing had become clear: they were both as stubborn as mules. They had just agreed to take a break from argument, as Sam needed to splash water on his face and brush his teeth.

Still reeling in frustration, he marched into the bathroom and appraised the set-up of toiletries. It must have been arranged by the two of them _before_ having lost their memories, as Sam couldn't rightly figure out whose items were whose. A couple of razors were scattered along the sink, two different kinds of tooth paste, one bottle of mouthwash, one bottle of shaving cream, a small flask of cologne, and two different kinds of deodorant – all haphazardly placed on the countertop around the sink, along with two cheap-looking standard-sized dopp kits. Sam sighed, slightly dejected over not knowing which of these things were his, and turned on the water to wash his face off. When he was done, he stood up and grabbed the hand towel to wipe his face. Absently looking along the side walls of the sink area, he stopped, frozen, at the sight of the toothbrush holder.

"Uhhh…" Sam groaned loudly in shocked disgust. He heard Dean call irritably back, "What?" from behind him in the room. "Dean, please don't tell me we use the same toothbrush," Sam whined back, his eyes still fixated on the single toothbrush in horror. He heard Dean approaching him from the room and brush against him to lean over into one of the dopp kits in the corner of the sink area. Sam had to move over and lift his arm up a little to let Dean through.

"That is _disgusting_ – what is _wrong_ with you," Dean grumbled in an undertone as he pulled out a toothbrush from one of the kits and thrust it at Sam. Sam wasn't even remotely embarrassed in the wake of his relief.

"Thank god," Sam murmured as he snatched the toothbrush from Dean. Dean shook his head with quiet disbelief, swiftly maneuvering his way out of the bathroom to leave Sam alone.

Shortly thereafter, they resumed their discussion.

"All right. So. Let me get this straight." Dean stopped his pacing and looked at Sam, who was propped against the headboard of the single bed they'd have to share again that night. Sam looked up at Dean tiredly. "We are brothers."

"Yes."

"That fight _real_ monsters."

"Yes."

"And you have visions."

Sam nodded, fixing Dean with an unblinking stare.

"Yeah, yes. Dean. How many times-"

"Wait let me finish," Dean interrupted. Sam waved a lazy hand to Dean in a gesture to keep going.

"You have visions – of _real monsters_."

"Yeah," Sam nodded once as he spoke.

"Sam… Do you have any idea how friggin' _nuts_ that sounds?! I mean, going after _crazy people_ makes sense. Because crazy people _exist!"_ Dean finished, his voice raised. Sam put his hands up and shrugged.

"I don't know what to tell you, Dean!" Sam matched his brother's tone, and Dean slapped the shirt he was holding against his hand in irritation, balled it up, and threw it at his duffle.

"Tell me you think _crazy people _exist and _not _the monsters they believe in!" Dean shouted back. Sam screwed his face up in irritation and watched Dean's movements around the room.

"I think monsters exist, too," Sam said, his voice solid. He kept his eyes on Dean as Dean turned around wearing a pained expression.

"This is literally unbelievable," Dean pointed at Sam, eyes drilling into him. Sam's anger flared up.

"Well what the hell why're you mad at _me?_"

"Because you're the one trying to convince me that monsters are _real_, Sam! What the hell? I thought you studied law at Stanford!" Dean shot back.

"Why the hell do you keep thinking I was at Stanford? We're in Virginia – that's like the other side of the country."

"That's beside the point, Sam-"

"Well what _is_ your point, Dean?"

"My point is that I thought you were _normal_!" Dean spat and, for some reason, he just stopped there. Dean could've kept going, but he just didn't. Gut instinct had reined his speech back, silencing him against any other offensive verbal spar. He was done, Dean realized. Something inside _himself_ had just flicked a switch and shut him down completely. A little confused, Dean still kept his face devoid of expression, and looked at Sam.

Sam, in the meantime, had frowned and, suddenly caught off guard, was rendered speechless. Dean's admission hit him harder than he expected. Some underlying sentiment tugged at him, connecting unknown emotions to it. Sam realized Dean had just, genuinely, hurt his feelings – like, down to his very core - somehow.

"I…" Sam stammered, "I _am_ normal," he said, at a loss. Sam was _screaming_ inside, desperately hoping that he'd just spoken the truth. The level of insecurity welling up in him from this incredibly _simple_ insult was scaring the shit of Sam, too. It was a clue – a clue that Sam _wasn't_ actually, 'normal.' That something _was_ really wrong with him.

Dean huffed in response to Sam's claim, but said no more. Looking at Sam like he was seeing him for the first time, Dean felt the need to angle his gaze away to survey the room. His eyes lingered on the wall with articles on it and sighed, rubbing his face with stress.

"Okay, you know what? Change of plans," Dean said, fed up and exhausted. Sam was about to say something when he heard Dean, and his voice caught. He found himself just a little frozen with fear about what Dean would say next. Dean hardly noticed, though, as he was still staring at the wall. "-This is what we're going to do," he said more calmly, and Sam's trepidation formed a lump in his throat, knowing what Dean was about to say.

"I'm going to spend the night here… And tomorrow, we're going to go our own separate ways. If you want to believe in monsters, Sam, go for it, but I'm just not interested," he finished. "We'll keep in touch, though," he added sadly, finally turning back to Sam and gesturing to him like he'd just extended an olive branch.

Sam bit his lip to stop its tremble and quickly rubbed his eyes. Sam had no _idea_ where his emotions were coming from, as he had no memory whatsoever of the man in front of him. But somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he had simply never felt so insecure or abandoned. Sam sniffed once and gave a slight cough to cover it up.

"You're, um, you're gonna take the Impala?" Sam asked, dedicated to keeping an even, calm tone. Dean looked over to Sam, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, if that's okay with you."

Sam coughed again.

"Yeah, I'll, um, get my things out of it tomorrow morning," he said, nearly cracking his voice at the end of the sentence. He held it together, though.

"Yeah. You can keep the computer, though. It's probably yours anyway," Dean said offhandedly as he moved into the bathroom.

"Okay," Sam whispered, staring down at the sheets, getting himself under control. He had whispered because he was unable to go louder for fear his voice would falter. He blinked away a few more tears, wondering what it would be like to have to deal with his visions and what he now believed to be monsters after them – or, soon, just him.

Sam heard Dean turn on the faucet in the bathroom. His heart beat was drumming a mile a minute with anxiety. Sam lowered himself down on the bed and covered himself with the blanket, pressing his hand against his heart in an attempt to try regulating it.

About fifteen minutes later, Sam heard Dean flick the light switch off in the bathroom and pad over to the side of the bed that faced the motel room door. On his way over, Dean stumbled over something and swore.

"What the hell – Why the _hell_ do we have massive canisters of salt!?" He whispered angrily. Sam moved around in bed and sighed, troubled.

"It's for-"

"_Don't_," Dean silenced Sam viciously, causing Sam to flinch and tear up again, "Don't even say it, Sam," he said meanly. Sam heard Dean pick up the canister and bang it against the side of a wall to get it out of the way. He made his way over to the bed.

"Dean, y'know you're gonna need to find your wallet before you go-"

"Yeah I'll _figure it out_, Sam," Dean shot at his brother as he whipped the covers open and climbed in. "It's not your problem," he added fiercely. Throwing the blankets back over himself, Dean turned away from Sam to face the door.

"Don't hog the covers," Dean warned, and clicked the dim light off, almost knocking it off the nightstand. A few minutes passed as Sam stared up at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting. Finally, he whispered in the dark, unable to control his curiosity.

"Why would you think I hog the covers?"

Dean sighed exasperatedly in reply. Sam didn't think Dean was going to give him any more of a response than that, and decided to let it go. Thirty seconds ticked by on the faced clock on the wall.

"Because you had all the blankets around you when I woke up," Dean grumbled. Sam tilted his head, at first in surprise that Dean had spoken, then with confusion.

"But…" Sam ventured with a whisper, trying not to sound argumentative, "-You- you woke up because I pulled the covers off you when _I_ woke up and freaked out."

"No, I was awake before then."

"Really?"

"Really," Dean confirmed bitterly.

After a couple seconds of silence, Dean rolled his eyes in the dark, somehow knowing Sam was probably feeling like he should've known. After a few _more_ beats of silence from the other side of the bed, Dean finally gave in: "You still got the drop on me with the gun, though."

Sam gave a small laugh at Dean's transparently lame attempt to make him feel better. Dean twitched the tiniest smile at the sound, trying hard not to allow the satisfaction he felt when he made the kid laugh.

He trained his expression into neutral, punched his pillow a couple of times, and went back to wondering if he was actually going to follow through with leaving Sam. When he had said that he would, it was in the heat of the moment – overwhelmed and disbelieving, he didn't want any part of whatever past would create such a grotesque present. However, as he drifted off to sleep, he realized that _actually_ abandoning this kid in the morning? The prospect struck so much fear in him – and fear _for_ Sam - that he honestly didn't know if he would be able to go through with it.

Dean closed his eyes. _Okay, I get it. I'm the big brother and so this is how it feels. I just wish I knew _why_ I felt this way._ Dean thought._ I _really_ need those memories back._

…

It was Dean's hearing that tapped into reality first. He opened his eyes into pitch darkness. As he pushed his way out of unconsciousness, the sound became clearer and Dean tried to keep his eyes open, staring towards where he knew the window was so his eyes could adjust to moonlight. He heard the sound again – like a whimper, or a sob caught in the back of someone's throat. Dean's brow furrowed in the darkness, wondering if he was just groggily hearing things, but then he felt the bed move.

Yesterday's memories came crashing back to him and Dean went on full alert, shifting over to look at whom he now knew to be his little brother.

"-The hell…" Dean murmured as he observed the kid on the other side of the bed. Sam was making the most pitiful noises Dean had ever heard, obviously trapped in a nightmare or something.

Dean winced crookedly, not sure about what physical barriers should exist between brothers that don't have a single memory of one another whilst in bed together. "This is super awkward," Dean groaned as he shimmied slightly closer to his brother in bed. "Umm," Dean hummed, reaching his hand over to touch Sam's shoulder. Sam didn't react, though, still caught heavily in the nightmare's throes. Dean licked his lips, pleading to whatever higher power to let his proximity be _close enough_ to wake the kid up.

"Sam- Hey, Sam," Dean whispered, shaking Sam's shoulder a little bit. Sam inhaled another sob, making a high-pitched whimper emit into the room and giving an involuntary, bodily thrash. Dean's heartbeat picked up and Dean almost rolled his eyes at how predictable he was becoming when it came to getting triggered by this kid's pain.

"Hey, c'mon Sam, wake up." Dean hoisted himself up in bed and moved into his space. His voice was firm and he gripped one side of Sam's chest to shake him awake.

"Sam!" He yelled with power. "Sam! C'mon, Sam, what the hell-" Dean said harshly, annoyed at Sam's lack of response. _This is ridiculous, _Dean thought with increasing frustration. He was pissed off, and Dean _knew_ it was because somewhere in him, he was, yet again, scared for Sam.

"Gah!" Sam exclaimed, his eyes darting open and staring up, in alarm, into Dean's.

"Dean?!" Sam asked, pure surprise in his tone. He tilted his head in bewilderment, getting a better look at the man hovering over him solicitously.

Dean, out of breath from worry, just stared down at Sam dumbly, his lips slowly pursing into irritation that he had gotten upset over this kid's stupid nightmare.

"Yeah?" His voice rumbled.

Dean thought Sam was going to tell him to get off of him, or ask him what he thought he was doing. He braced himself to inwardly cringe in embarrassment. If Sam had _seen_ himself during the nightmare, he would've understood Dean's prerogative to wake him up. As it was, Dean didn't think he'd come out of the situation looking like a hero here. He waited for Sam's caustic remark, but it didn't come.

"Dean, are you really going to leave tomorrow?" Sam asked, completely out of left field.

"Huh? What?" Dean replied instantly, sideswiped.

"Are you really going to leave tomorrow?" Sam repeated his question in the same exact tone. Dean couldn't really see Sam's face, but his voice sounded unequivocally frightened. Dean leaned away from Sam, sitting on his haunches in the center of the bed, and considered.

"No," Dean replied gently, "I can stay awhile longer, Sam."

"Really?" Dean felt Sam's eyes on him in the dark and nodded.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, moving back to his side of the bed and turning to lie down. "Now stop having nightmares. Go to sleep," he ordered.

Sam slept peacefully for the rest of the night until Dean woke him up with the sound of a shotgun blast around three-thirty in the morning.

* * *

_Writer's Note: Woohoo - Okay, so you guys are pretty much caught up to where I am in writing this story. I've missed thanking people individually for their reviews last chapter – I'll get to you guys, soon, though, as I love the conversation. Looking really forward to your thoughts/feedback on _this_ chapter, though, too, if you could spare the time – Thank you so much! Cheers! ~ Alex Kerr_


	6. Chapter 6

_Writer's Note: Brief warning here – R-rated language._

* * *

_Previously…_

_"No," Dean replied gently, "I can stay awhile longer, Sam."_

_"Really?" Dean felt Sam's eyes on him in the dark and nodded._

_"Yeah," Dean confirmed, moving back to his side of the bed and turning to lie down. "Now stop having nightmares. Go to sleep," he ordered._

_Sam slept peacefully for the rest of the night until Dean woke him up with the sound of a shotgun blast around three-thirty in the morning._

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 6**

3 AM

Dean felt Sam, once again, move closer to the center of the bed and, once again, Dean inched away from him slightly. Suddenly nothing but air met his side: he'd reached the cliff of the bed. Blearily, Dean lifted his head up to orient himself and discovered Sam had moved beyond the center of the bed, trespassing much too far onto _his_ side of the bed.

Dean slammed his head back onto the pillow.

"Oh my god," Dean murmured in disbelief, "Really?"

As if on cue, Sam rolled over quickly, clearly in the throes of a dream, and nailed him in the chest with a limp, heavy fist.

"Uh!" Dean grunted in pained surprise and looked over at the still asleep kid next to him.

"Seriously?!" Dean stage whispered at Sam, trying to wake him up. The kid kept sleeping, though, his hand slowly falling off Dean's chest and onto the mattress next to him. Rolling his eyes, Dean sighed heavily and decided to let him sleep. He stayed still, listening to his and Sam's breaths as he stared at the ceiling. Slowly his eyes began to adjust and he could make out the dimensions of the room from the moonlight shafting through the window.

Dean felt like this was unusual for him – he felt like he was the kind of guy that never had problems going to sleep. Tonight was weird, though. He had this unconscious layer of awareness- a dull alarm ringing vaguely in his mind - somewhere he couldn't quite place.

He knew he'd heard somewhere that people with amnesia, over time, get triggered with memories by meeting something or someone familiar to them.

Thing was, Sam was the only thing that he knew _had_ to be familiar to him. Yet neither of them were triggering each other's memories.

Maybe they weren't actually brothers.

At this meandering thought, he turned his head on his pillow to look at Sam. The kid was on his stomach, face turned towards Dean on his pillow less than a foot away. Dean managed to see Sam's eyes moving underneath his closed lids – REM sleep. Sam was definitely dreaming. Nothing major, though, Dean appraised; just an average, run-of-the-mill dream. Probably playing with a dog or talking to someone in a car.

Dean was slightly fascinated, now, as he stared freely at Sam's face, knowing he wouldn't wake up any time soon. They didn't really _look_ very related, if he was still considering the idea that they weren't actually brothers. But it didn't really matter.

Dean was more interested by the affection that seemed to run through him when he looked at him. It felt familiar; comfortable. Above all, it felt unconditional, which was a weird feeling when he had no memories to back it up.

Yeah. It was _jarring_. Dean realized he'd give anything for this stranger and that felt wrong: sappy and _weak_. He felt like he should have legitimate reasons why he cared: cold hard facts that proved this guy was worth the fondness he felt for him.

But not this time. No, he could only go with his gut that, 'Sammy,' had been screened appropriately by him when he had had memories.

Dean continued looking at Sam's peaceful expression – he supposed the same logic must have been followed by Sam. Only Sam was obviously more willing to trust his feelings than Dean. He'd left himself wide open so many times over – Dean could have really hurt him by now. He hadn't, though, and so Dean wondered if perhaps Sam was just a naturally excellent judge of character. Dean settled on this concept, deciding to give Sam the benefit of the doubt. He'd rather think of the kid as acutely perceptive rather than innocently ignorant, anyway.

Sam twitched his head and his bangs fell into his eyes as he rolled a fraction closer to Dean again. Without warning, Dean's practiced hand swiftly brushed them off Sam's face.

As his arm was halfway back to its resting position on his chest, Dean realized what he'd just done.

"Uh, that was so lame," he whispered as he resignedly landed his arm back on his chest and turned away to look at the ceiling.

Yeah, the kid had to be his brother.

A couple minutes later, something ticked against the door and Dean shifted sharply, his eyes steady and focused. Without missing a beat, Dean silently stepped out of bed and moved over to grab the shotgun in the duffle. Even _he_ marveled at how quiet he was.

He steadied the gun on the door as he moved over to the bed again, unconsciously shielding Sam as he continued to sleep.

Dean remained in that position for nearly a full minute, on alert, all his senses gripping each moment as it passed. He felt his neck and arms start to sweat a little, as he held the gun anxiously.

Soon, though, he started to wonder if this wasn't just really bizarre. He'd heard a small sound outside and now he was standing in boxers and a t-shirt with a loaded shotgun aimed at the door at three-thirty in the morning.

"Um," he hummed, feeling lost. He turned to look down at the bed. Sam had sprawled out over the entire mattress, which didn't really surprise Dean. Dean, in fact, was more interested that Sam was still sound asleep. Meaning Dean was the only one with this sense of warning keeping him up.

As Dean began to second-guess his instincts while idly looking at Sam and around the motel room, the door burst open.

"Shit!" Dean yelled and took aim.

Before his shot, Dean realized he was about to shoot a fully-formed human male. _Not a ghost_, he thought as he pulled the trigger.

"Dean!" Sam called out just as the gun's shot rang out. Sam had thought the door had been the gunshot, but he quickly observed he'd been wrong: the second boom that shuddered through his unsuspecting eardrums had been the real gunshot. Sam covered his ears at the last minute and dumbly watched the man get hit by the salt rounds.

"Dean holy shit what've you done!?" Sam yelled as he started to rush out of bed and towards the shot man to help. Dean was watching more carefully, though.

The man had taken the hit – the salt pellets had landed the mark – but they hadn't put the guy down. Dean widened his eyes in disbelief.

"What the-" Dean whispered as he watched the guy stretch his neck as if the hit had been nothing. He saw Sam start after him, not having seen what Dean had just witnessed.

"Sam NO! Get away from him!" Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him back down against the bed.

"Dean!"

"Sam, look!" Dean ordered, and Sam turned in the direction of the man. His mouth opened in shock.

"I'm not a ghost, you idiot," the man sneered as he brushed himself off and stepped over the threshold, into their room.

At this, Dean pulled Sam off the bed and whipped him back behind him. Sam was on the same wavelength, more disconcerted than ever about what was happening.

"Shit, we need lights for this…" The man casually, and flicked the main room light on. The brothers grimaced and squinted from the instant bright light. With pinprick pupils, Dean cocked the shotgun and kept it pointed at the man.

The man was wearing a rumpled suit and a pair of rimless glasses that framed distinguished features. Middle-aged and fit, he still seemed to walk with an uncharacteristically exaggerated saunter as he approached with careful steps.

"So," the man said slowly as his expression shifted from irritation to contained excitement, "We gonna have a chat?"

The man narrowed its eyes as it took another step forward; Dean mirrored the action by backing up, feeling Sam's presence literally in-step right behind him.

"What are you?" Sam asked tentatively, his voice heavy with apprehension. It was clear that, although he'd been arguing for it, even Sam was still skeptical of his theory that monsters were real.

"You show me yours I'll show you mine," the man replied playfully.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" Dean spoke up, disgruntled.

The man laughed lightly to himself and stepped further onto the moth-eaten rug in the center of the motel room. Dean reacted, backing up in equal distance so far from the man that Sam found himself wedged between his brother and the wall. At this, Sam simply grunted and kept a hand on Dean's shoulder. Both of them could feel the other's trembling; neither of them knew exactly what was so terrifying about this man. Other than the fact that he managed to be invincible to salt rounds from a shotgun. Still, he was undeniably off-kilter: he spoke with a feminine drawl and seemed to savor every word he spoke. His body moved fluidly, but he was contorting his gestures. It looked like he was experimenting with range of motion, changing and swaying around even as he stood in one spot.

"It means," the man tilted his head almost too far to the side and sneered, "that I want to hear what you two are. That is, if you can," the man added deviously and smirked. Sam and Dean realized that the man was referring to their memory loss and their daunted expressions played themselves out for the man to see.

"Ohhh," the man's eyes widened, thrilled, and suddenly shot his head to the side, clacked his teeth together to bite into the air, and twisted back to Sam and Dean within the same instant. He erupted into a drippingly sarcastic laugh.

Both Sam and Dean watched this man's display and simultaneously adopted the same disgusted expression.

"Fuck this," Dean murmured, took aim, and blasted the man with another round of salt.

The man grunted in blunt surprise at the shot's force and stumbled backwards. Halfway through his fall, though, Sam and Dean both jumped in shock as they watched the man slam against _nothing_ and fall forward onto the old rug in the center of the floor. There, the man remained still and unmoving.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked breathlessly, accidentally right in Dean's ear, making Dean flinch and take a side step away from Sam. His eyes didn't move from the man on the floor, who had just started to groan and move his hands.

"I don't know… I don't know what's going on," Dean undertoned, dead serious, as he cocked the shotgun and took aim again.

"The hell… Did you boys… Do?" The man's muffled groans were spat out with hatred. Dean took two hesitant, small steps forward towards the man now that he was on the floor. He had the advantage, now, and he felt Sam approach from behind him as well.

"Uhh," the man whined miserably as he grasped a piece of the rug and pulled at it, revealing the floor underneath. "Sons of bitches," the man coughed bitterly at the devil's trap symbols that had been spray painted and hidden by the rug.

At this, Sam approached and passed Dean in an effort to look at the pattern on the floor.

"Hey- _Sam_!" Dean yelled sharply, frustrated by the kid's lack of regard. He wanted desperately to pull Sam back behind him. If he did, though, he'd be compromising his aim. A quick analysis told him to keep his target; if Sam got grabbed, Dean would already have the guy in his crosshairs. Dean knew his reaction time was fast enough; Sam was safe as long as Dean remained focused.

Sam crouched down about three feet away from the man's limp form. He stared at the symbols on the floor.

"Dean…?" Sam trailed off quietly, sounding scared, yet in awe. The motel room was quiet; only the man's heavy breaths punctuating the air as he recuperated from the shotgun hit.

"Yeah?" Dean prompted, slightly out of breath himself.

"I've seen this," Sam replied in a low voice, numb with dread. Dean recognized a loaded statement when he heard one. He grimaced and swallowed, bracing himself for Sam's explanation.

"What is it?" He asked gruffly.

Suddenly, the man on the floor rolled over onto his back and started moaning as he stretched his limbs out in experimentation.

"Get back, _Sam!_" Dean shouted, now sacrificing his aim to pull Sam closer to him. It worked halfway; Sam was rendered off-balance in his crouch and fell backwards onto the floor. He stopped there, though, transfixed by the man on the rug.

The man was finding and feeling the invisible walls of the Devil's Trap and laying his hands and feet up against it, moving and swaying them up and down inside the borders. His movements were disturbingly sensual; his muscles contorting smoothly around the invisible field as if he was deriving pleasure from his confinement.

"Ah," he breathed slowly, "I've never been in one of these," he whispered as he palmed the cage. Dean watched, stunned and disturbed at the sight that met his eyes.

"Sam-?" Dean prompted, but Sam remained silent, watching. Dean glanced down at his brother. "Sam, you want to throw out a theory any time, now, bud, 'cause I don't think this dude came here to mime for us."

At this, the man jerked onto all fours on the floor and stayed perfectly still, his head bowed down at the floor; back hunched in the air – lifting and lowering at every exaggerated inhale and exhale.

Sam and Dean held their breath, and for a moment all was silent until a low, slow growl emitted from the man and started escalating gradually in volume.

"Holy shit, is he growling?" Dean asked in irritation, pulling the shotgun back up and taking aim. "Stop it!" Dean yelled at the man, obviously annoyed and, inwardly (though he'd admit it to no one) terrified. The growling kept going, though.

"Dean, don't shoot it again," Sam finally spoke, still sitting on the floor; at level with the man.

"It?" Dean barred his teeth, trying to get an edge on his sanity as he kept his gun on target.

"Yeah, _it_," Sam replied softly, still stunned.

"Well could you make _it_ stop growling at us? S'_freakin'_ me out," Dean replied in frustration.

Much to Dean's utter surprise, Sam rearranged himself on the floor into a cross-legged position about a foot away from the man. Dean still couldn't see Sam's face, but he could hear Sam's calm demeanor through his leveled voice.

"It's just scare tactics, Dean. This thing can't hurt us. Not while it's in this thing," Sam spoke evenly and gestured to the floor's spray paint.

"What is that thing?"

"It's a Devil's Trap."

"Uh huh," Dean replied skeptically. Sam turned around to look at Dean.

"I'm serious."

Dean returned Sam's genuine expression with a glare of his own.

"And what the hell makes you think I'm not being serious about this situation?" He bickered back, gesturing the loaded shotgun in his hands. Sam raised an eyebrow and turned back to the growling man.

"So, if you're bound by the devil's trap, you must be-?" Sam asked the man reasonably, sounding like a removed scholar. The man's growls abruptly stopped and a deep well of gagging laughter pierced through the room, making Dean flinch. He felt sickened by the sound of it.

"Ah," the man drawled in an oddly seductive manner, "So," he hissed, "You want me to give away _all_ the secrets?" He asked, his voice small, his words crisp. He exaggerated three tisks directed at Sam. "You know what we are, Samuel Winchester," the man's voice turned into a whisper. "Don't you?"

With that, the man raised his head to stare black eyes straight into Sam's. In that same instant, the man bodily threw himself at the invisible wall that separated them from each other

"_Holy- Shit!"_ Sam yelled, jumping and scrambling back behind Dean just as Dean let off another salt round. He missed, but the man had already been taken down by the devil's trap perimeter. He was now lying in a heap on the rug again.

"Okay, Sam, are we done with the studying? You want to stop figuring this shit out like a case study and start filling me in on the textbook you've been reading?" Dean yelled at Sam, furious, as he cocked the shotgun again.

Flustered, Dean's voice snapped Sam into gear again, a sense of urgency beginning to dawn on both of them. Their statements ran in rapid-fire to one another.

"Yeah uh, um, so he has black eyes-" Sam managed to get out.

"What does that mean?" Dean interrupted.

"That means he's a demon," Sam replied precisely.

Dean shot Sam a rueful glance and Sam returned it with his own. Dean licked his lips and kept aim on the demon.

"All right well rock salt isn't working. I'm not doing much good here."

"It's trapped. It can't hurt us."

"That's not the problem we're facing, Sam. We've got a demon trapped on our motel room floor," Dean said uncomfortably, readjusting the shotgun in his hands. Sam bit his lip and stared, unblinking, at the man on the floor.

"_Oh_ god," Sam finally exclaimed.

"-What?"

Sam looked up at Dean, grimacing.

"I could try exorcising it," Sam said in an undertone.

Dean clapped the shotgun up in his hands, his face screwing up into confusion as he shot Sam another quick glance.

"Exercise it?" He nearly yelled in contempt.

"Ex-_OR_-cise it, Dean!" Sam shouted back with irritation as he got up to stand next to his brother. Dean didn't blink.

"Yes, try it. Do it, now, before it starts growling again," Dean encouraged.

"Okay… I, um…"

Dean automatically realized Sam, in his anxiety, couldn't recall the first lines to get him started on the full exorcism. Dean summoned his composure and tried to remember the first words of any one exorcism he'd asked Sam to recite.

"Sam…" he said softly, "Sammy," he added, unconsciously using the nickname to calm Sam down, "Omnis legio, omnis congregatio," Dean started, looking at Sam meaningfully to get him to follow his voice. Sam gulped and nodded along with Dean.

"Good. Okay. Again," Dean instructed patiently.

"Omnis legio, omnis congregatio-" they spoke in unison, "et secta diabolica-" and that was where Dean stopped and Sam started running with the Latin.

Sam's voice got stronger and stronger as he recited the exorcism and Dean, while still focused on a perfect shot of the demon, felt the air charge and a light breeze turned into higher- and higher-speed winds. The light in the room started flickering and the demon began to scream high-pitched begs for Sam to stop.

Sam started to tremble his words in fear as he observed the effect the Latin was having on their surroundings. The man before them had begun to writhe in pain, eventually coming to a kneeling position, his head outstretched far behind his back and his hands banging and clutching against the invisible perimeter.

"Sam! Keep going!" Dean called amidst the loud, whirling gusts of wind that blew past them. Sam turned around and looked at Dean, his eyes conveying mounting panic. "You can do it! Keep going!" Dean yelled again, trying to support Sam even while he kept his gun centered and still on the demon.

Sam reluctantly turned back to look at the demon.

"-eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei-"

Black smoke began to pour out of the man's mouth. At this, Sam stood still and stopped speaking, dumbfounded at the sight. It billowed in the air, inside the devil's trap and just above the man's grotesque figure.

It was pure evil; Sam could feel it, and it was in his presence less than two feet away from him. Sam found it difficult to breath, much less speak.

Dean felt the thing too; the smoke was concentrated – it was a distilled essence from hell that easily disoriented and unsettled. Acknowledging this, and compartmentalizing it, was the real battle, now, and Dean had to rip himself away from watching.

Staring at the floor he fought the urge to give in and instead finally dropped the shotgun.

Sam stared in terror at the black smoke. It had begun to swirl like a snake up and down around the man's body, trying to get back in. It dawned upon Sam that the smoke was sentient. When it realized it couldn't get back into the man, it whirled around the border of the Devil's Trap, trying to get out in quick shoots. The trap's walls would repel it back in a ricochet until it tried another direction.

Suddenly Sam felt an arm snake across his chest, solidly grasping him, and he jumped and cried out, terrified the smoke had gotten out and gripped him just as it had tried to do to the man inside the trap.

"Careful! _Sam!_" Dean yelled as he added his other arm's strength to roughly pull his struggling brother further away from the Devil's Trap. Sam grabbed at Dean's arms at his chest as he struggled to gain purchase with the floor. Dean continued to force him backwards. "Don't look at it! Stop! Don't look! Just keep going, Sam!" Dean yelled. Sam stuttered a few times, still unable to turn away from the display before them. "Damn it!" Sam heard Dean yell, and then Sam felt a calloused hand cover his eyes harshly. It almost felt like a slap, only his hand stayed there, and Sam could only focus on sound.

"Sam! Stop it! Leave it!" Dean yelled at his brother as Sam started trying to rip Dean's hand away from his eyes. "Stay still, god damn it, _Answer me_!" Dean called sharply, and Sam fought slightly less hard to get out of his brother's hold. "Where were you in the exorcism?" Dean spoke sharply into Sam's ear.

Overwhelmed, Sam couldn't remember.

"I… I don't know…"

"_Focus_!"

"-ad imaginem Dei-" Sam finally muttered.

"Good job. Keep going," Dean replied softly, his hand still covering Sam's eyes. Sam gasped a couple of times, trying to regain some composure. He swallowed a couple times, and started in again.

"-conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis!" Sam choked out, finishing the incantation just as the sounds in the room were hitting their highest crescendo.

And then, silence. The roaring winds, screams, and all other sounds were as if they had never been there: sucked into a vacuum of nothingness. It was complete and utter quiet, save for two hyperventilating brothers clutching one another against the far wall of a typical, ugly, run-down motel room.

Sam gently pried Dean's hand off his face to see the damage and Dean allowed it, simultaneously removing his other arm from around Sam's chest.

Listless, Sam stepped to the center of the room where the man had collapsed and was now lying still on the floor.

"S'he alive?" Dean slurred dully, not having moved from the wall's support. Sam slowly shook his head, then crouched down and tried to roll the man over.

"-Careful, Sam-" Dean pointed out.

"It's okay, Dean," he reassured sadly, and felt for a pulse. He couldn't find one.

Sam looked up at Dean gravely, his lips pursed, and shook his head in confirmation.

Dean shoved off from the wall, frowning, deep in thought.

"You know," he started, his tone low and gentle, "I don't want to sound insensitive here, but if that's a dead body, we're in some deep shit."

Sam nodded as he sat on his haunches, looking at the man. He didn't say anything in response, and Dean felt something tug at him. A sixth sense, maybe, that some unknown torment was happening then and there that Dean couldn't possibly fathom.

"Hey," Dean tilted his head to the side, "Sam?"

Sam still didn't look up from his gaze on the dead man.

"Dude, the guy's dead as a door nail. He's not gonna wake up – you can stop paying your respects, man," Dean quipped, "We gotta figure-"

"Fuck you," Sam interrupted quietly, knocking Dean off guard.

"Um. _What_?"

"Sorry," Sam shook his head, still staring at the man. Dean studied Sam for a second.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked seriously. Sam didn't hold off on an answer.

"You think I killed him?"

"No!" Dean gave his kneejerk reaction without missing a beat. "What the hell-? _No_, Sam."

Sam nodded slowly and rubbed his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, Dean had grabbed his arm and lifted him up onto his feet.

"C'mon," Dean said, stepping over the man's body and walking over to the table to grab the Impala's keys.

Sam stood, watching Dean in bewilderment.

"What do you think you're doing? We can't just leave-" Sam said neutrally. Dean looked up just as he put his leather jacket on and walked back over to Sam.

"We're just going to go for a drive; clear our heads. C'mon," Dean replied decisively, and gently pulled Sam's elbow to get him to follow.

Sam acquiesced, nearly stumbling over the body as he followed. Dean stabilized him quickly, and let Sam lead the way to the Impala. Before exiting, Dean turned off the light, closed the room door, and locked it securely. He turned around, expecting to see Sam waiting by the passenger seat of the Impala parked right out front.

Instead, Sam was two feet away from Dean, looking frazzled as he turned one way, then the other, gazing down both directions of the motel's hallway.

"What?" Dean prompted when he spotted his baffled brother.

"How did no one _hear_ what just happened?" Sam asked, clearly bothered by this discord in logic. Dean licked his lips and blinked a few times, trying to grasp how Sam could possibly be held up on that question. Of all the questions they currently needed answers to, Sam was asking _this_ question.

Sam stopped looking up and down the hallway and faced Dean expectantly.

"I-" Dean started, then stopped. "Sam- Just. Get in the car."

* * *

_Writer's Note: Thank you for reading! I had a great time writing! Please review – and if you'd like to help me along with ideas/suggestions, that'd be amazing. This story is so *hyper* chronological (as in, the opposite of You Better Start Swimming, haha), I don't want to miss anything along the way. Cheers! ~ Alex Kerr_

_Writer's Note #2: To answer Sarah, an awesome anonymous poster, the boys are about 23 and 27, I'd say, with a season 2 setting. Law book in the car because I figured it'd be a reasonable thing for Sam to have around as well as a decent (and entertainingly misleading) clue for the boys to find at first. Thank you so much for reviewing - I'm sad I don't get to thank you personally via PMs! Best, ~Alex_


	7. Chapter 7

_Previously..._

_"How did no one hear what just happened?" Sam asked, clearly bothered by this discord in logic. Dean licked his lips and blinked a few times, trying to grasp how Sam could possibly be held up on that question. Of all the questions they currently needed answers to, Sam was asking _this_ question._

_Sam stopped looking up and down the hallway and faced Dean expectantly._

_"I-" Dean started, then stopped. "Sam- Just. Get in the car."_

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Ch 7**

"Uh yeah can I get four sausage mcmuffins, two hash browns, two extra large coffees, and, I don't know…" Dean trailed off, turning to Sam in the passenger seat.

"Get a juice, just to sound healthy," Sam murmured distractedly.

"Apple or orange?"

"Orange," Sam offered. Dean nodded and turned back to the drive-through radio.

"Uh yeah and an orange juice?" He called out.

"Anything else?" The voice crackled.

"No that's it."

"Okay just drive up to the cashier and we'll be with you in a minute."

Dean shifted and the Impala sidled up next to the window. The two of them waited in silence, neither of them wanting to break the moratorium on speech since they'd gotten into the car.

Dean had driven around for awhile until he spotted the McDonald's and recalled that they could treat themselves to the elusive breakfast menu.

Dean paid at the window and received the bag of food, passing it over to Sam before looking back up, waiting to pick up the piping hot coffee. He heard Sam mutter behind him as he made rustling sounds in his seat with the bag.

"If there's anything I want to do less than eat right now, I don't know what it is…"

Dean noticed the staff was taking their time with the coffee and leaned back against the driver's seat. He turned to Sam and gave him a judgmental expression.

"Don't be a smart ass," he said with no real venom in his words.

Sam sighed, closed his eyes, and laid his head back against the seat. Dean started when he realized the cashier was waiting for him to take the coffee. He grabbed them and handed the one in his right hand to Sam without looking.

"Orange juice?" Sam questioned tiredly, taking his coffee from Dean. Dean looked up to Sam, expression open.

"Oh yeah," he said, his memory jogging, and turned to the window.

"Hey did we get the orange juice?"

The cashier nodded and pointed to the bag in Sam's lap.

"S'in the bag," she said glibly.

"Great thanks." Dean shifted the car.

The Impala rolled out of the drive-through and continued down an unknown highway Dean had chosen on a whim about twenty minutes prior. The silence was on again, but for the crinkling sounds of the bag while Sam was surveying their order. Inwardly, he was trying elicit his appetite by smelling the contents, but all the scent did was cause his stomach to turn in disgust.

"You should maybe try to eat something in there. A hash brown or something..." Dean suggested innocently. Sam winced in response, wrapping the bag closed and setting it aside between them.

"I know; I just can't…" He trailed off, then turned to look out the window. He covered his mouth with his hand in thought, disturbed. Dean tipped his head, acknowledging Sam's difficulty. A few more moments passed. Dean readied to launch into the conversation they needed to have.

"For all your weirdness for noticing, we caught a break that no one heard us."

Sam didn't move; he just huffed at the window and gave a small head shake.

"I'm serious, though," Dean pressed. "There's a dead body in our motel room back there. The cops would be crawling all over us right now if anything had been reported."

Dean glanced over to gauge Sam's expression as he turned to face the windshield. Sam's lips were pursed with stress, but he was nodding. He raised his hands, at a loss.

"So what should we do?" He asked, his voice small but not unsteady. He sounded defeated; depressed. Dean squinted his eyes and smacked his lips as he stared through the windshield.

"I think we need to go back, get our stuff, and get out 'a dodge," he said quickly, simply, inferring that there was no other option. Sam's expression was the essence of worried as he raised his fist to his mouth in contemplation. He shook his head as he thought out loud:

"I agree there's no way we could ever hope to hide the body," Sam sighed.

"Okay, so I'm turning around," Dean replied in kind, slowing the Impala down and angling it into a u-turn. As they switched directions, Sam's anxiety fluxed into motion, but he played it down. They had passed a mile with another bout of silence when Sam spoke up.

"What do we do after?"

"After skipping town?"

"Yeah. How're we going to, you know, live?" Sam said hesitantly, unsure of the answer himself. In reaction, Dean made a series of rhythmic ticks with his mouth as he thought, obviously at a loss for what to say. Finally, when both of them had had enough of his ticks, Dean stopped.

"You know what, Sam?" He asked, sounding slightly peeved, "One thing at a time, all right? Let's just… Do this… Step by step," he said, struggling to put into words his clear inability to conceive of what would happen to them afterwards.

"Okay," Sam replied heavily, willing to drop the matter for now. He looked back towards the windshield as he chewed his lip, his brows furrowed, thinking about his question. Dean glanced at Sam and gave him a double-take.

"Hey, man, it'll be okay," Dean said, lightly clapping his brother on the shoulder. When Sam shook his head in doubt, Dean gently pushed him sideways and back in his seat. "C'mon, it'll be okay."

Sam finally responded with a quick swipe to get Dean's hand off of him.

"Stop it," Sam asked more than demanded. Dean stopped, disappointed he hadn't lifted Sam's spirits, and placed his hands back at ten and two.

"Will it make you feel better that I believe that monsters are real, now?" Dean tried, a hint of apology in his tone.

Sam snorted and shook his head. Dean noted with satisfaction that Sam was failing to hold back a smile.

"I'm, um," Sam frowned and shook his head, trying to find the words as he stared into space, "Pretty… Unhappy… That I was right about that," he finally managed. Sam bent his head down and grimaced as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Dean glanced over and, seeing Sam's posture, turned back to look at the road. He accidentally gave a fast exhale of laughter, and then another. He looked at Sam again, who was looking at him like he was crazy, and Dean's smile grew wider.

"I'm sorry," Dean laughed, "I just…" Dean cracked a vocal laugh, "It's just so absurd, Sam, look-" Dean tried to explain the humor, "We wake up with amnesia, we're brothers, and monsters are _real_. It's like the ultimate _nightmare_, man!" Dean continued laughing, partially in denial, partially at the truths they had, so far, established in the past twenty-four hours of knowing each other.

Sam watched his brother, having difficulty finding the comedy, but tolerated it as he continued to think about the implications of what Dean was saying. The fact that he had visions was an additional element to this, 'ultimate nightmare,' that they were in, but Sam was reluctant to volunteer that detail if Dean wasn't going to mention it.

Dean's laughter died down.

"It's just… It's just like a cheesy b-list horror movie, you know?"

"Yeah, Dean. I get it," Sam shot back, unwilling to deal with Dean's one-liners about their circumstances any further. Unfortunately, Sam's annoyance bolstered another bout of silent laughter from Dean as they drove back to the dead body in their motel room.

Dean relaxed, eventually, and Sam raised his eyebrows as he spoke to Dean.

"You done?"

"Shut up."

…

The Impala pulled into the motel parking lot; its occupants now flooded with dread as the headlights hit the door of their room. Both of them felt sick to their stomachs and tried to stay as silent and quiet as possible when they opened and closed the car's doors.

They had agreed that they needed to be careful: even if the cops weren't yet a concern, the whole monsters-are-real deal _was_, and they didn't yet know enough to rule any location safe. Dean took the, "cool-lookin'," knife from the weapons bag in the back; Sam took a handgun.

As they climbed out of the Impala, it was Sam, this time, that was surprised by how soundless they could be – acutely aware of his surroundings, he literally felt his senses turn, 'on,' to pay attention to any potential noise he could incur in order to avoid it. He was impressed – they were tall guys to be so adept in stealth.

Dean got to the landing first and held up a fist as he placed his ear to the door, listening. At the sight of the signal, Sam stopped moving and waited. He tilted his head in surprise, realizing that he had unconsciously followed the signal, even though he couldn't put its meaning into words. He waited for Dean, and soon after watched Dean's fist slowly open into a widespread hand. Sam took the signal, recognizing Dean was meaning to say that the coast wasn't yet clear, but there was no obvious signs of danger. Sam started moving forward again, pulling the handgun out as he did so.

Sam brought himself up behind Dean. Dean twisted around to look at Sam as he pointed to him and put up two fingers. Sam shook his head, nodded to Dean's knife, then his own handgun. Using the same signals as Dean had, Sam pointed to Dean and put up two fingers. Dean squinted with disapproval, then put his fist out between them. Again, on automatic, the boys, 'rock, paper, scissor'-ed who would go in first. Sam won, and Dean stepped away, inwardly a little conflicted by the innate sense of frustration he felt as Sam took the lead.

Without looking at Dean, Sam extended his hand out and Dean placed the room key in Sam's hand. Sam took a breath and carefully slipped the key into the door and twisted the knob. He gave the door a slight shove with perfect pressure: causing it to swing open widely without banging the wall. Sam licked his lips as he entered, and Dean followed warily.

The room was as they had left it, the body of the man still in the center of the floor. The two of them waited on full alert for anything to happen. About twenty seconds passed, at which point Dean quickly closed the motel room door without so much as a whisper.

The sight of the dead man was making both of their hearts thump loudly in their ears, and they used their adrenaline to start packing their things together. They had to step over the dead man a few times each, and both Sam and Dean had to clamp down on their nerves so they wouldn't jump over him in a panic. They were both trying hard not to entertain thoughts that he might wake up, black eyes gleaming, intent on killing them once and for all (_which_, Dean tried not to think, _would totally happen in a cheesy b-list horror flick_).

Once they had finished, they both looked up at one another expectantly. Sam gave an A-Okay sign with his hand and Dean nodded vaguely, returning it. They pulled their gear into their arms and left the motel room noiselessly towards the Impala to throw everything into the back seat.

Landing in the front seat together, Dean keyed the ignition, his hands trembling with anxiety. The headlights lit up the door again and they both stared at it with wide eyes for a second.

"We got everything, right?" Dean asked.

"Yes. Everything," Sam gave Dean the answered he needed before Dean pushed his arm against Sam's chest when he jammed on the accelerator to reverse out of the spot. Dean started humming AC/DC's Thunderstruck in his head as Sam lurched forward against Dean's arm, slammed back into the car seat when Dean broke and switched gears to drive, and nearly hit his head on the passenger seat window as Dean took a sharp turn out of the parking lot and onto the road.

"Jesus, Dean…" Sam gasped, out of breath. He turned to look at Dean, who'd removed his arm and was now gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Dean stopped humming and exaggerated a shiver.

"Ah, I'm sorry, man-"

"No it's okay," Sam interrupted, granting Dean his short-lived freak out. He understood. Now that they were back on the road, he felt like he could breathe again. Dean must have been feeling the same way.

"Where are we headed?"

"I was thinking about that while we were packing. I think we should cross state lines as soon as possible."

"Okay. So… That means…" Sam thought about it for a second, "Maryland?"

Dean nodded thoughtfully, then tilted his head in amusement.

"I think I really like that state."

"What? Maryland?" Sam asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean chuckled, nodding. "I don't know what it is," he said offhandedly.

"What are you, like, remembering something?" Sam sat up, interested now. Dean gave a vague flinch and shook his head.

"Nah… Not remembering anything," he said, disappointed. He started rubbing his eyes. "Sorry," he grunted vaguely.

"S'okay," Sam murmured, settling back down. Their nerves were still frayed, and the two of them continued on the road in silence, trying to relax.

…

Two hours later, Sam and Dean crossed the border into Maryland.

"All right awesome," Dean murmured as he spotted the sign that said, 'Maryland Welcomes You. Enjoy Your Visit.' Sam looked up.

"Yup, we have now-" Sam paused for the sign to pass them, "-officially qualified as an FBI investigation." Sam quipped as he looked back down to continue shuffling through the glove compartment's items. Dean gave a hearty laugh.

"High five!"

"No."

Dean set his hand back down on the wheel.

"You know what? You're no fun," Dean observed with a relatively playful tone. Sam sighed and leaned his back up against the seat.

"All right, listen. We should stop somewhere and talk about where to go from here."

Dean frowned and bobbed his head in thought.

"Okay. Why do we have to stop driving, though?"

"Because I want to take another look at the car," Sam replied openly.

"What do you mean? You're _in_ the car," Dean pointed out, confused, "So can't you just… Look at it right now?"

Sam actually gave a small chortle to Dean's response.

"No I mean _look_ at it, look at it," Sam said meaningfully. Dean squinted in thought.

"No I'm not getting you."

"Okay, this car is pretty much the thing we seem to _live_ in, right now, right? I mean, it looks like it, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, willing to go with Sam on that logic. The Impala certainly looked lived-in.

"Right and so, well, I don't know. Maybe this car holds some secrets, too. Hopefully our wallets are in here somewhere."

"What, like under the seat cushions?"

Sam shrugged.

"Sure?"

Sam waited on Dean to confirm this was a good idea. Dean bit his lip and nodded.

"Okay. I'll stop at the next rest stop."

"We should make sure it's empty."

"Yeah," Dean agreed lightly.

…

About twenty minutes later, Dean walked out of the minimart with packages of chips and beef jerky in hand. As he approached the Impala, parked in the farthest, emptiest corner of the rest stop's parking lot, he saw Sam crouching near the open backseat door reaching for something.

Dean gave a long sigh.

"Sam, I swear to god you asked us to stop so you could just _organize_ the damn car. Have you found anything yet?"

Sam jerked up, surprised by Dean's voice, and turned around, peeved.

"Not yet," he said, and determinedly turned back to continue feeling around under the seats. Dean lightened up after he threw their provisions into the front seat and came back around to Sam.

"You want help?"

"Nah, not here," Sam sighed in frustration. He looked up at Dean for a second. "Oh actually, I did find one thing-"

Dean's eyebrows lifted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's not _that_ helpful or anything, but here, look…" Sam leaned over and pulled a torn piece of leather on the back of the front seat down a little further.

"Hey, Sam, c'mon, man-" Dean called automatically as he leaned in next to Sam to look. "The car cries when you do tha-" Dean stopped speaking when he saw the messily etched initials: D.W. and S.W.

Sam looked up at him with one eyebrow raised and a smile playing across his face. Dean squinted at it to look more closely.

"Huh," Dean frowned, raising his eyebrows, "Okay," he said lightly.

Sam laughed at Dean's reaction.

"What? No, I mean, that's kinda cute," Dean admitted, causing Sam to start laughing again, "But- Hey, Sam – But, I don't get how it's useful."

Still smiling, Sam gave him the run-down.

"Well, like I said, it's not _that_ useful, but it tells us a couple of things."

Dean leaned against the Impala, listening.

"One, it tells us that we were in this car as kids," Sam said reasonably and Dean nodded in agreement, able to buy that explanation. Only kids would deface this beautiful car - and it was reasonably unlikely that a different pair of kids with the same initials as them could have spent time in the car.

"Two, it kind of explains the army man stuck in the side door ashtray," Sam said, blinking at the irrelevance of this, 'discovery.' Dean was all over it, though.

"Oh thank God. I'm so happy we know, now, why there's an army man stuck in the ashtray-"

"Yeah, shut up," Sam interrupted his brother's sarcasm with his own drawl as he leaned into the backseat again.

"It was probably _you_, you know," Dean said, taking a stab at humor.

"Hey, check out the trunk, will you?" Sam called out, ignoring Dean, his voice muffled from inside but still audible.

"Yeah got it," Dean replied loudly so Sam could hear. He grabbed his coffee from the front seat and casually walked to the back of the car. He took a sip as he opened the trunk. He stared at the empty compartment, gestured to the empty space, and took another sip blandly. He remained there for awhile, just enjoying his coffee when he heard Sam call out.

"D'you finding anything?" Sam yelled, losing grammatical structure in his words as he grunted around in the back seat. Dean screwed his face up with impatience.

"No. It's an empty trunk. I don't really know what you want me to do," Dean called back. He heard Sam stop rummaging around in the backseat.

"Just do what I'm doing," he yelled irritably.

"I don't even know what you're _doing_ back there," Dean shot back. Sam poked his head out from the backseat and into Dean's line of sight. His face flushed, he spoke with an exasperated tone of voice.

"Feel around, check to see if there's any stuff under or around the crevices or the trunk floor, okay?" Sam added pointedly, staring Dean down. Dean rolled his eyes and set his coffee down on the ground near the back wheel.

"Okay," Dean groaned, and Sam turned back inside the car.

"I don't know," Dean started mumbling to himself as he, 'felt,' the floor of the trunk, starting at the back, "Why you think this car is going to have a treasure hunt inside of it," he grunted, "We're not in Narnia; the car isn't going to open-" Dean moved his hands to the center area of the trunk's floor, "- a portal to a magic fantasy-land full of-" Dean stopped short, feeling the edges of the trunk board give around the front side edges.

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Huh." Dean gave the board a slightly heavier push and felt it bounce back against his hands as if on a spring. He pushed again, hard, and the board flew up, making him jump back in surprise. He caught a glimpse of what was underneath before the floorboard flopped back down again, covering its contents.

Dean stared at the trunk, a few steps away from it, now, in shock.

"SAM!" Dean boomed, his tone accidentally sounding furious. He saw Sam jump in recognition and bang his head on the roof inside the car. It would've been funny if Dean hadn't been so alarmed by the trunk's contents. Sam stepped out of the backseat sorely, rubbing his head and making his hair stand up in weird places as he nodded to Dean.

"What? What is it?" He asked, sidling up to Dean. The hit on his head had knocked him of his regularly spot-on intuition. He took a second to register Dean's mood.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, then quirked an eyebrow up as he stared at the empty trunk, then back to Dean.

"You okay, man?" He asked hesitantly, wondering what was wrong with his brother. Dean looked at Sam.

"I found something," he said weakly.

Sam looked skeptical and approached the trunk space, feeling around.

"Dean, I don't know what you found, man, but I think you're just-"

Dean walked up to next to Sam, batted Sam's hands out of the way, and jammed his palm against the trunk floor board. It sprung up, revealing an arsenal of weapons. Sam gasped and stepping away as Dean deftly caught it with his hand before it could fall back down.

"Holy shit!" Sam yelled in shock as Dean lifted the whole board up and searched the trunk's contents for something to keep it propped up. He pulled a small, sawed-off shotgun out and examined it. Shoving away an odd sense of nostalgia, he wedged it between the platform and the real trunk floor.

By then, Sam had tentatively stepped back into place next to Dean to study the interior of the secret compartment.

They both stood in silence, staring at all of the weapons, charms, weird religious items and symbols.

Dean broke the silence with a clicking sound.

"Well. I'll tell you one thing," Dean offered, "If that demon hadn't come into our room last night, I'd seriously be reconsidering my conviction that we're not murderous occultists."

Sam ducked into the trunk space, scrutinizing a few articles. He pulled a beat-up, worn leather-bound book out and held it out to Dean.

"Hold this," he murmured, then moved in further.

"A book," Dean grabbed it from Sam, "Obviously only you would go for the book first and not the ninja stars-?"

"Shut up," Sam whispered as Dean reached over Sam's back to pull one of the ninja stars out from their spot.

"These are so cool," Dean said in awe as he inspected them, the book he was holding forgotten in their wake.

"Ah A-ha!" Sam called. Dean looked down at Sam again.

"What?"

"Found our wallets," Sam grunted as he stood back up. He held in his hands two, nearly identical, worn leather wallets. Dean noticed and gave a huff.

"God, what are we, twins?"

Sam smirked for a split-second, looked inside the first one, and silently handed it to Dean. He turned around to lean against the open trunk edge to take a few minutes studying his. They studied their real identities in silence.

"Eh," Dean finally murmured with distaste, "This is only slightly helpful," he ruled.

"I am…twenty-two," Sam said pointedly. He looked up at Dean expectantly. "You?"

"I'm… Oh, holy shit!" Dean exclaimed, looking at his license.

"What? What is it?" Sam asked, concerned. He got up from his perch on the trunk. Dean looked up for a second, then back down at the license.

"No, no, it's nothing. Sorry," Dean added, not having meant to worry Sam. "No, it's just my birthday today."

Sam jerked his head back in surprise.

"Oh. Wow," he said, slightly stunned. He waved a hand in Dean's direction. "Happy… Uh… Happy birthday, man," Sam said as he broke into a smile, seeing Dean's innocently delighted expression at the revelation.

"Thanks," Dean replied nicely, nodding with satisfaction.

"So what does that make you?"

"Um… Twenty… Twenty-seven," Dean answered, surprised. He looked up at his brother. Sam shrugged. "Four years apart."

"Five. Twenty-two to twenty-seven-?" Dean corrected. Sam nodded.

"Yeah no but I turn twenty-three in four months."

"Ah okay," Dean nodded.

"C'mon," Sam murmured, and turned back to the trunk. Sam ducked under again and Dean kept look-out as Sam pried and searched for any additional clues inside.

* * *

_Writer's Note: Yay the Impala-Arsenal-Discovery scene! Planning for the boys to meet someone they know in the next chapter in order to move things along. Thank you for reading! Please review – your feedback always, seriously, helps me out so much. Cheers! ~ Alex Kerr_


	8. Chapter 8

**Writer's Note: **Special thanks to my buddies shookenuppepsi and MZ-Superman-Fan for having successfully firecracked me back into resuming this fic! Can't thank you guys enough!

* * *

_Previously..._

_"Oh. Wow," he said, slightly stunned. He waved a hand in Dean's direction. "Happy… Uh… Happy birthday, man," Sam said as he broke into a smile, seeing Dean's innocently delighted expression at the revelation._

_"Thanks," Dean replied nicely, nodding with satisfaction._

_"So what does that make you?"_

_"Um… Twenty… Twenty-seven," Dean answered, surprised. He looked up at his brother. Sam shrugged. "Four years apart."_

_"Five. Twenty-two to twenty-seven-?" Dean corrected. Sam nodded._

_"Yeah no but I turn twenty-three in four months."_

_"Ah okay," Dean nodded._

_"C'mon," Sam murmured, and turned back to the trunk. Sam ducked under again and Dean kept look-out as Sam pried and searched for any additional clues inside._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

* * *

"Hey Sam?"

"Mm?"

"What if I like... hit your head hard enough-" Dean trailed off with a smile as Sam looked up at him, "-that it'd jog your memory?"

Sam's expression was the definition of confused annoyance. Dean's eyes still held a playful light when Sam looked back down at the journal they'd found in the trunk.

"I am really surprised I'm younger than you," Sam murmured dully as he flipped a page.

Dean chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. They had decided to go back inside the rest area. Dean wanted another donut and Sam hadn't said, 'no,' to a muffin. They'd taken a spot in the back next to the window that gave them a dreary view of the parking lot and highway. The sky was overcast, the parking lot barren save for their car.

Dean sighed at the sight. This was depressing. He felt restless but he had no idea in what direction to go. What course of action should be taken. It rankled him.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, what, Dean?" Sam asked, this time sounding a little annoyed. He didn't look up from the journal.

"You finding anything good in there?"

Sam's turn to sigh. He rubbed his eyes roughly and blinked up at Dean.

"Not really, no."

"Nothing about memory loss?"

Sam gave a tired grimace as he eyed the journal, waving vaguely at it.

"I mean. Witches, maybe."

"_Witches_?" Dean repeated with disgust.

"Uh," Sam quirked an eyebrow at his brother, "Yeah. Witches."

Dean felt a chill run down his spine.

"You... don't... like... witches, I take it?" Sam asked, his surprise at Dean's reaction turning into amusement.

"No, I don't like witches," Dean confirmed, surprised but more just innately revolted.

"Wizard of Oz too scary for you as a kid?" Sam teased. Dean rolled his eyes, giving in to a crooked smile.

"I really wouldn't know, now, would I?" Dean replied.

"Eh, yeah, fair enough," Sam acknowledged. He stretched and leaned back against the bench seat. Dean took another sip of his coffee and leaned forward over the tabletop.

"Okay. Let's prioritize. We need to figure out where we're going."

Sam looked off in the distance, thinking, nodding tiredly.

"Is there an address in there? Any address?" Dean asked, referring to the journal. Sam pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side, looking forlornly at the thing.

"No s'mostly just like... Monsters and demons and stuff," Sam replied casually.

Dean tongued his cheek and looked skyward. '_Monsters and demons and stuff,' _Dean thought, _God help us_.

Just then, he felt something vibrate in his jacket pocket.

"Oh oh! Sam!" Dean called as he nearly jumped in anxiety to get his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Who is it?!"

Dean pulled it out and flicked it open to squint at the caller ID.

"Ah, ah, it's... Bobby Singer?" He asked, flustered, then realized that Sam obviously wouldn't know the guy either.

"Answer it!" Sam ordered urgently, but Dean hesitated and looked at Sam uncertainly.

"What... What do I say?" Dean asked quickly.

"What do you mean what do you say? Just answer the phone, Dean!"

"No I mean do we tell him we've lost our memories? What if he's a _demon_?!"

"Dean, why the fuck would you have a demon's phone number on your cell phone?!" Sam shot back at him. "Give it to me!" Sam added, reaching out for the phone.

"Stop, S- _Sam_!" Dean stage-whispered in anger, gripping his brother's hand from reaching his phone and jamming on the, 'accept call,' button. "Jesus you're so obnoxious," he added as he let go of Sam's wrist with a shove. Sam snickered as Dean angled his face towards the phone.

"-on't tell me you've run into another trickster again," the gruff voice crackled over the line.

"Wh-What?" Dean asked, confused, and held his index finger against his free ear to cut out ambience. "B-Bobby Singer?"

"Dean Winchester?" Bobby replied with the same tone of voice. Dean looked skyward in confusion. Was this guy mocking him?

"Are you Bobby Singer?"

"Dean what the hell is wrong with you? Is Sam with you?" At that, Dean looked up at Sam.

"Yeah. Yeah Sam is here."

"Put 'im on," Bobby ordered. Dean screwed his face in annoyance and handed the phone to Sam. Sam blinked at Dean.

"He wants to talk to you," Dean said with a shrug. Sam squinted his eyes and bit his lip in thought. Coming to a quick conclusion, he twirled his finger over the table and mouthed _okay go with me on this_. Dean nodded, shrugged and gestured the phone to Sam again. Sam took it and took a breath, then pressed it against his ear.

"Hi Bobby," Sam said, sounding relaxed but tired.

"Sam. What's wrong with Dean?"

"Well, we kind of have a situation here."

"How's that?"

"Dean's lost his memory. Like, all of it."

"_What_?"

"Yeah, he doesn't remember a damn thing," Sam explained. He couldn't help smirking when he saw Dean in his peripheral vision. Dean was clearly not thrilled that he was taking the fall as the amnesiac.

"So, um, do you maybe know how to... how to get his memory back, Bobby?" Sam squinted as he spoke, knowing it was a stretch. He glanced at Dean and realized he was making the same expression.

"Oh yeah let me just look it up in my Encyclopedia of Supernatural Neurological Disorders," Bobby groused back at him. Sam licked his lips and broke into an excited smile: this Bobby guy knew about the whole monsters deal. Sam waved his hand at Dean and pressed his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

"He knows about demons and stuff!" Sam whispered vehemently to Dean. Dean gave a crooked smile and nodded at Sam.

"Good - keep talking to him," Dean whispered back. Sam nodded and looked down at the table to focus on Bobby's voice.

"Sam-?"

"Yeah hey I'm here..." Sam trailed off, not knowing exactly what else to say.

"What are you hunting?"

"Hunting?" Sam repeated, confused. He looked up at Dean for help. Dean's eyes lit up and mimed pumping a shotgun and stage-whispered a shotgun blast sound. Sam's eyes widened with comprehension and nodded.

"Yeah, Sam. What are you hunting?"

"Um, yeah, sorry - no - the connection just broke off for two seconds. We were hunting a demon."

Dean gave Sam an encouraging nod and a thumbs up.

"Were?"

"Uh. Yeah. We exorcised it. It's gone now."

"So... It's not the thing that caused the amnesia?"

"Um, we don't know," Sam replied helplessly. He looked up at Dean, worried. _What?_ Dean mouthed. Sam shook his head and bit his lip, waiting on Bobby's response.

"So what's your plan?"

"I... I..." Sam stuttered, not sure what to say. He didn't _have_ a plan, but he knew that if he actually said that out loud, Bobby would suspect something. "I was hoping you could help me out with that."

"Well, off the top of my head, I can't think of anything. I'll hit the books, though, I guess. You in Richmond still?"

"Uh, no."

"Where are you?"

"Maryland."

"Why the blazes're you in Maryland?" Bobby asked in annoyance.

"Because we exorcised the demon in our motel room. We had to get out of dodge," Sam replied defensively. He looked up at Dean, who nodded with him: it was a reasonable move.

"Uh, Sam? You couldn't just _move_ the body?"

_Oh gross_, Sam thought as he winced into the phone. _They regularly moved _dead bodies_ places?_

Sam coughed as a shiver ran through him. His stomach did a somersault and he could barely get out his response.

"Uh... uh-uhh..." Sam felt like he was going to be sick and angled himself away from the table, "No we couldn't do that, Bobby. Dean freaked out," Sam murmured weakly as he held his stomach and bent over to gaze at the floor. The idea of picking up and moving human corpses around was just absolutely repulsive. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, though, listening as his breaths ran a little ragged.

"Damn it, Sam, you should've told Dean to wait outsi-"

Before Bobby could finish his sentence, Sam felt a gentle hand cup the side of his head, then lightly hover over the hand he was using to hold the phone. Dean had gotten out of his seat to crouch down by the floor closer him. He pressed his fingers over Sam's to get the phone and Sam let him take it.

"Hey Bobby it's Dean again," Dean said apologetically, still crouched in front of his brother. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. "Yeah I freaked out about the corpse. It's a friggin _dead body_, dude," Dean said good-naturedly. Sam vaguely realized that Dean must've been able to hear Bobby's voice through the phone. He tried not to do the same as he recovered.

"Nah Sam's fine. Just annoyed that I don't remember him," Dean gave a crooked smile and looked down at the floor in concentration. "Anyway, you want us to go back to Richmond?" Dean paused to listen. "Okay Bobby, I get what you're saying but how do we 'look deeper' into the case of a demon that we've already killed?"

Sam looked up at Dean just then, slightly surprised. Dean's question was fearless in its practicality. Dean sensed Sam was okay and casually moved his hand down to his brother's knee, more to support his own crouched position on the floor than to reassure his little brother. He gave a long-suffering sigh in response to whatever Bobby had just said to him.

"No I don't want _Sam_ to give me the run down I want _you _to give me the run down, Bobby," Dean demanded, then broke into a wide smile and looked up at Sam mischievously. Sam tilted his head, halfway curious and halfway suspicious of what would come out of Dean's mouth next.

"Yeah he's being a condescending bastard about this stuff," Dean chuckled into the phone. Sam rolled his eyes with a wry smile as he shook his head.

"You gonna be any better if I ask you some stuff?" Dean challenged Bobby.

Sam turned back quickly to look at Dean, anxious to hear that Bobby would say 'yes.' Dean took a second to glance up at Sam and winked.

"Okay first question," Dean paused for emphasis as he stood up from his crouch and slid back in to his seat at the table. "We-" Dean stopped, catching himself, and coughed, "Sorry, um, so _I'm_ running low on cash. How do _I_ make money?"

Sam toggled his head in approval: _yet another practical question_. Just then he noticed Dean was gesturing for a pen and paper. Sam ripped out a blank sheet from the journal and handed him the pen that'd been stuck in the pages.

"Oh so I'm that good, huh?" Dean said, obviously satisfied about something Bobby had just told him. Sam watched Dean write something down. He turned the page around so Sam could read it: "I'm awesome at pool."

"That doesn't surprise me," Sam deadpanned. Dean grinned.

"Okay next question. The dead guy in our room. Yeah. He was dead when Sam exorcised him. Yeah. Shot him a few times with rock salt," Dean cringed at this admission, but soon lightened up as he listened to Bobby, "Oh really?" Dean's eyebrows raised and he looked up at Sam. "That's good to know, okay. So the medical examiner _won't_-" Dean stopped talking. "Yeah no we didn't even touch the guy." Dean listened to Bobby and started scribbling on the paper again, then shoved it in Sam's direction. It read: "You didn't kill the guy." Sam read it and swallowed. He looked up to see Dean staring at him meaningfully. Sam nodded that he was okay. Dean gave a small nod back and refocused to the conversation with Bobby.

"Okay so if we pretended to be - what? - FBI agents? Are we-" Dean stopped again, listening. "I'd rather that, yeah," Dean seemed to be agreeing, then pulled the piece of paper back from Sam to write something down. This time, though, Dean didn't slide it across to Sam. He kept it by his side and continued to take notes while he talked to Bobby. Sam gave a long sigh, noticing the shift: Dean was now giving Bobby undivided attention. He'd share the rest of the info with Sam once he was done.

Sam placed his palms against the side of the table, unconsciously bracing himself under stress. Up until this point, Sam had felt like Dean's tendency to take the lead was unnecessary at best, but right now he couldn't think of anything he needed more.

He stared out the window and tried to stave off this feeling he kept having of being twisted or warped in some way. He didn't understand it, but he felt like something was inherently _wrong_ with him. It frightened him. If he only had his memories, maybe he'd be able to rationalize it somehow. He was completely disarmed without them, though. He had nothing to fall back on to assuage this constant sense of brimming horror and repulsion of... himself.

Snapping sounds started punctuating Sam's thoughts until a sharp snap came so close to his ear he jumped in surprise and looked at Dean with a harassed expression. Dean moved back from having leaned over the table to break Sam out of his reverie. The phone still against his ear, he shot Sam an equally annoyed face - only his was plainly angry for some reason.

"What?" Sam asked and inwardly cringed when it sounded like a whine. Dean still had Bobby on the line, so he gestured two fingers to his own eyes, then pointed to Sam firmly. Lips pursed with authority, his eyes unblinking as they pierced into Sam's, his message was clear: _I'm watching you. Keep it together._

Sam scrunched his face with distaste at Dean's implicit order as he repositioned himself in his seat and reluctantly followed it. He reopened the journal and glanced back up to Dean. Much to his surprise, he found Dean's eyes had lit up with amusement, having fallen into silent laughter at Sam's behavior.

Dean had just made a _tacit_ demand upon Sam that had been received and obeyed immediately. To cap it off, Sam had looked to Dean for _approval_ afterwards.

Dean was laughing at how automatically Sam had responded to him and, while Sam didn't want to give him any more satisfaction, he knew - he saw in Dean's eyes - that Dean wasn't laughing _at_ him but rather _with_ him. Dean was pleased with the dynamic that had just played out.

Sam couldn't help but crack his own small smile in return.

About forty-five minutes later, Sam was fully absorbed in the journal when a hand suddenly slapped down on it, making Sam startle back and look up at his brother dazedly. Dean was hovering over him with an expression of disbelief.

"So the world disappears when you read, huh?"

"What?" Sam asked dumbly, orienting himself to his surroundings.

"C'mon, let's go," Dean cocked his head to the exit and pulled the journal from the table as he started walking. Sam grabbed the water bottles they'd picked up and rushed to get out and follow Dean.

"J'you just get off the phone with Bobby?" Sam asked, hurrying up to walk alongside Dean. Dean opened the door and held it for Sam.

"Yup," he said glibly. Sam stopped and turned to Dean.

"So? What'd he say?"

Dean exaggerated a long breath with an accompanying stretch.

"A lot," he groaned, then started towards the Impala. "I'll fill you in during the drive."

"Where we going?"

"Richmond, Virginia," Dean said with a sarcastically bright tone before ducking into the driver's seat. Sam followed suit and closed the passenger door beside him. Dean turned the engine over.

"We... Gonna... Get arrested?" Sam asked, not sure what fate Dean was signing them up for.

"No, Sam, we're not gonna get arrested," Dean replied patiently. He pulled the car out of the parking space and shifted gears to get back on to the highway. This time going back South. As they passed the sign, Sam gripped the leather-bound journal a little tighter. Dean glanced over and noticed.

"That's our father's, by the way."

Sam's eyes widened and he looked down at the journal in his lap.

"Wow, really?"

"Yeah, why?"

Sam opened the front of the journal and carefully worked out an old, beaten picture that was fixed onto the back of the front cover.

"This... ah, hold on," Sam murmured as he fumbled with it, "Got it. This must be..." Sam turned the photo over in his hand. "Ah, wow, yeah. 'The Winchesters. John, Mary, Dean and...mm... _little Sammy_,'" Sam finished the quote with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

"Ha," Dean huffed, grinning, and glanced over at Sam. "Don't worry you're not so little anymore, dude," Dean quipped. Sam remained silent and Dean gave Sam a double-take. After a few more seconds, Dean gave in. "Lemme see," he requested gently, reaching his hand out. Sam tore his deep gaze upon the happy faces in the photo and handed it to Dean. Dean brought it into his line of sight at the top of the steering wheel to take a good look at it.

"Wow," he said bluntly. "This looks so wholesome."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, feeling an unerring sadness seep into him. "I wonder what happened, you know? If our father wrote this journal... I mean... Dean, I think this is like years and years worth of culminated research. And _experience_..."

Dean licked his lips and nodded along, his expression unreadable.

"Dean?" Sam prompted. Dean snapped out of it with a long breath.

"Yeah. Yeah no I don't know. I, uh, I asked Bobby," Dean trailed off.

"What'd he say?"

"He said John's missing right now. That we're, 'hunters,'" Dean air-quoted while keeping his hands on the wheel, "whatever that means."

"What'd he say about our past? Our family history?"

Dean grimaced and slowly shook his head.

"Couldn't get that out of him."

"_What_?!" Sam asked, appalled, "But... But we have a right to _know_!"

"Hey, no," Dean moved his hand out, palm up, to Sam, "Listen, c'mon, he thought you had your memories. He said it wasn't his place if you hadn't told me yet," Dean explained. It was a principled stance to take on Bobby Singer's part, Dean thought, so he couldn't really blame the guy.

"Well," Sam huffed, "shit," he drawled as he stared at the photo.

"Yeah," Dean murmured.

...

The Impala drove in to the Chamberlin Motel around four in the afternoon. Dean left Sam asleep in the passenger seat to grab a room. He estimated the walk to the nearest pool table was a few blocks as he sorely made his way back to the car key in hand. They needed to replenish their cash and if Bobby vouched for his ability to hustle pool, it was good enough for him. He lightly knocked on the window and watched Sam twitch off the door. He looked up at Dean with bleary eyes.

"Come on we're back," Dean called airily as he moved towards the back of the car to grab their duffles. He saw the passenger door open slowly as Sam stepped out. "You still beat?" Dean called out. Sam yawned and stretched out from the side of the car.

"No I'm cool," he croaked. Sam followed Dean into the motel room. Dean set down the bags as Sam plopped down to sit on one of the beds. Dean patted himself down, readying himself.

"Okay. I'm going to head out and see if I can score some cash."

"Uh, what? Playing pool?" Sam asked, still groggy.

"Yeah."

"'Kay let me take a shower - I want to come with you, though."

"Nah come on just meet up with me," Dean pushed; he was restless. He felt like moving. And a beer. And maybe some pie.

"Okay," Sam agreed, not particularly in the mood to argue.

"Cool I'll be three blocks West."

"All right," Sam murmured blandly as he pulled his shirt off on his way to the bathroom, "Bye!" he shouted as he shut the door.

"Later," Dean called back as he shut the door to the motel room.

...

It was around five-thirty that Sam walked into Sunny's Bar & Grill. Sam sensed the familiarity of the atmosphere, but didn't necessarily appreciate its grit. He walked in and went straight to the bar when he realized he'd given Dean his money clip. He stopped and turned around, searching for the back pool area. Sure enough, Dean was hunched over the table positioning for the break.

Sam maneuvered his way past the booths and tables to the back and waited for Dean to take his shot. He noticed Dean's posture was in poor form and he was gripping the cue like a stick on the felt. Grimacing, he watched Dean make a terrible break and stand up to look at his opponent, a local twenty-something, with an easy embarrassed smile and shrug. He gestured the table to the kid and then turned to look directly at Sam with a wink. Sam smiled, suddenly understanding. _Hustling_ pool and _playing_ pool were two different things.

Dean sauntered over to him, completely unconcerned about the kid's performance behind him on the table. Sam nodded to Dean as he approached.

"Got any cash?"

"Yeah you want a beer?"

"Yeah."

"Will you get me one, too?" Dean asked as he pulled out the wad of bills he'd accumulated. Betraying nothing in facial expression, Sam was still impressed.

"Wow good job."

"Nah they're mostly ones," Dean shrugged the compliment, chuckling. "Hey! We should hit up a strip club after this," Dean half-joked. Sam bit his lip to keep from smiling as he tucked the cash into his pocket.

"Again, _how_ are you the older one?"

Dean cracked a laugh and slapped Sam on the shoulder as he turned to go back to the bar.

"Go git me-a beer, bitch," Dean ordered comically.

"Jerk," Sam huffed back, nearly stumbling over the half-step stair that separated the pool area's hardwood floors from the bar's.

...

The door to the motel room opened with a long, exaggerated creak. It seemed to go on forever until it hit the door stop with a soft thud. Suddenly a snort of laughter emitted from the door frame.

"_That_ was creepy."

"You exorcized a demon yesterday an' you think _that_ was creepy?"

Dean flipped the light on as the two of them filtered into the room.

"Oh god, please. Don't remind me," Sam begged honestly as he walked over and sat on one of the beds. Dean set the few bags he was carrying on the small table by the window and turned around.

"Want another beer?"

"Sure," Sam answered casually. Dean grabbed a beer and popped it open with his ring before handing it to him. "Thanks."

Dean nodded as he popped his own and took a swig. He looked at the clock.

"God. It's only nine."

Sam looked over at the time and nodded.

"Feels later," he offered, taking a gulp of his own beer.

"So..." Dean trailed off, catching Sam's eye. Sam looked up at him, then squinted.

"What? You look like you're thinking of something stupid," Sam surmised.

Dean looked up with pursed lips, considering. He nodded slowly, giving that one to Sam. He didn't say anything more and let the silence hang. Sam held firm under Dean's gaze. Until he couldn't.

"_Fine. _What is it?" Sam bit.

"All right. This is what I propose," Dean said, slowly removing something from out of one of the bags on the table. "It's like research. It's for _science_," Dean deadpanned.

"Uh huh," Sam responded with skepticism as Dean pulled out a dart board. He lifted an eyebrow.

"Dean, if you want to play darts, that's pretty normal. You're acting weird-"

"_Not_ _darts_, Sam. Not darts," Dean pointed at Sam as though instructing, a glint of excitement in his eye. Sam looked at Dean, confused.

"_Ninja Stars_, Sam. I wanna play _Ninja Stars_."

* * *

**Writer's Note:** Thank you so much for reading! A bit on the lighter side, this chapter. What'd you guys think? Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex


	9. Chapter 9

_Previously..._

_"Not darts, Sam. Not darts," Dean pointed at Sam as though instructing, a glint of excitement in his eye. Sam looked at Dean, confused._

_"Ninja Stars, Sam. I wanna play Ninja Stars."_

* * *

Sam blinked at Dean's gleeful expression in disbelief.

"Lemme just... Get this straight. You want to continue to drink beer... And play with the weapons in the trunk?"

At the word, 'play,' Dean pulled back in disgust, shaking his head.

"No, _no_, Sam, not _play._ It's, um," Dean sought the right word as he walked over to the far wall of their room, "It's like finding out how good we are..." He murmured, leveling the dart board where an ugly painting of a forest was currently framed.

"Seriously?"

Dean grabbed the picture off the wall with one hand and turned around to throw it on the bed.

"Yeah. Why not?" Dean asked, looking at Sam and picking up his beer off the nearby table. Sam huffed again in disbelief.

"I... uh..." Sam suddenly raised the hand he was holding his beer with and pointed at Dean, "No guns."

Dean smiled for a split-second and put his hand to his heart.

"Promise. No guns," he confirmed, turning back around to hanging the dart board where the picture once was.

"Good, 'cause we're drinking," Sam added as he took another sip of his beer. Dean turned back around to look at Sam.

"Right. No guns when drinking. Got it. But ninja stars..." Dean trailed off, looking to Sam with raised eyebrows. Sam pursed his lips and sighed, finally relenting with a small smile and nod.

"Ninja stars we can do," Sam confirmed, his smile growing as Dean's eyes lit up brighter.

"C'mon," Dean said excitedly as he grabbed an empty duffel. Sam started grinning, Dean's enthusiasm getting to him, and jumped off the bed to follow Dean outside.

The trunk opened wide and Dean popped the floorboard. Sam leaned in and grabbed the sawed-off to keep it open as Dean pulled the stars off the top.

"Ninja stars, check. What else?"

"The machete could be interesting," Sam offered, and Dean grabbed it to place inside the duffel.

"Oh my god I think that's a bazooka, dude," Dean laughed, sliding his hand along the metal weapon in the far back.

"No guns," Sam reminded him jokingly.

"I know but we should drive out to a forest or something and try this out when we're sober," Dean whispered quickly, looking up at Sam.

"Yeah definitely," Sam laughed as he kept his eyes on the weapons in the trunk.

"Okay what about the little knives here?" Dean pulled out a few small knives, about four inches in length. Dean scrutinized one, angling it around in his hand, "What are these, like knives for midgets?"

"No like for your ankle, maybe? Like, uh..." Sam snapped his fingers, trying to remember something, "Like that guy in Desperado."

"Huh. Let's try 'em out," Dean ruled, jamming them into the bag. He moved things around in the trunk, finding things and stacking them into the bag.

"You realize how weird it is that you remember the movie Desperado but not me?" Dean asked casually.

"Mm, yeah. You knew what I was talking about, though, right?"

"Yeah," Dean hummed, "Good movie."

"You think Bobby's gonna jog our memories when he gets here tomorrow?" Sam asked hesitantly. Dean continued packing things into the bag or, at least, pretending to. He shrugged.

"I don't know," he answered honestly, then added, "No."

"No?"

Dean looked up at Sam having heard the surprise in his little brother's voice. He nodded casually.

"The way Bobby put it, you and I have been around each other for the greater majority of our lives," Dean explained carefully. Sam shifted uncomfortably as he looked at Dean, thinking about how many memories the two of them must be missing. "So, I'm just saying, you know. If we can't trigger each other's memories, I doubt this guy Bobby could."

Dean shut the trunk.

"What'd you think of Bobby?" Sam asked, deliberately shifting the conversation. Dean glanced at Sam openly.

"Thought he sounded like a good guy," Dean shrugged. "Why, what'd you think of him?"

Sam shook his head and shrugged in casual agreement.

"Yeah I thought he sounded fine, too."

"Good," Dean announced and started walking back to the motel room, "'Cause we're meeting him tomorrow," he called back to Sam. He turned around when he'd reached the threshold of the motel room door. "In the meantime, though," Dean smiled and gestured the duffel. "Let's play with some ninja stars."

Sam huffed in laughter and followed after Dean. They both walked inside and Sam closed the door. The two of them simultaneously moved to grab their beers and take a few more gulps.

"All _right_," Dean rubbed his hands together as Sam came up alongside him to stare at their bounty of weapons in the duffel. He glanced at Sam as he grabbed a few ninja stars. "This is gonna be so awesome."

Sam smiled and grabbed three, too.

"Watch - you're terrible at them," Sam laughed as he saw Dean walk over to the far side of the wall that now hung the dart board. He nodded at Sam.

"Get out of the way," Dean asked and Sam gave a small jog to get behind Dean and watch. Sam was silent as he watched Dean line up his shot.

"Okay okay," Dean murmured, then shot. He hit the dart board, but only just barely.

"Oh C'MON!" Dean yelled, grabbing his beer and taking a swig as he stared at the star with disappointment.

"What, that wasn't bad!" Sam insisted, laughing at Dean's reaction. "You just need more practice."

"Shut up. You try," Dean nodded to Sam. Sam, still smiling, lined himself where Dean had been.

"'Kay," he murmured. Sam made the movement of throwing a few times with the star in hand for practice. He stopped a second, swallowed, and the millisecond before he let go, he heard Dean shout.

"MISS!"

Sam released the dart and rounded on Dean with playful annoyance.

"Oh my god, Dean, fuck you, dude," he laughed. Dean's eyes were on the dart board, though, and he wasn't laughing.

"Dude, look!" Dean made Sam turn back to the dart board. It was a bull's eye.

"Whoa that's awesome!" Sam exclaimed, walking towards the board with Dean right behind him.

"That _is_ awesome!" Dean acknowledged. The dart was wedged right dead center of the dart board's bull's eye. Dean examined it and turned to look at Sam, impressed. Sam felt a twinge of satisfaction run through him: Dean thought he was cool. He suddenly _felt_ really cool.

"You're totally a ninja!" Dean's eyes widened with sarcastic amazement. This time, Sam was starting to loosen up over the beer and the thrill of having hit a bull's eye with a friggin' _ninja star_. Dean's presence was also starting to ease him in to having a good time. So they were a pair of amnesiac brothers: help was coming soon in the form of this guy Bobby tomorrow and in the meantime he was doing okay: no visions, no latent feelings of insecurity or fear or grief threatening to swallow him whole.

They were just two brothers sharing a motel room playing darts with weapons that were way cooler than darts.

Sam turned to look at Dean and welcomed a new trait that neither he nor Dean had seen yet: his sense of humor.

"I'm _totally_ a ninja!" Sam laughed. "You try again."

Dean nodded and took another swig of his beer. He stepped in front of Sam and tried again. The star wedged smack into the wall about an inch away from the board.

"Shit," Dean whispered vehemently as he strode towards the wall. Sam started laughing.

"There goes the deposit. Great job, Dean," Sam bantered as Dean took a closer look at the star and pulled it out of the wall. He looked up at Sam with a crooked grin.

"S'a good thing there was a picture hanging here before. No way we're losing our deposit," Dean reminded Sam.

"Oh yeah good point, actually," Sam replied openly. "'Kay my turn again. Move." Dean moved off to the side and waited, crossing his arms.

"Hey-" Dean called before Sam shot the star, "Try doing the two in your hand in a row."

Sam smiled, catching on to what Dean was saying and nodded. He positioned himself and kept the second star at the ready in order to grab it right after he shot the first. He took a deep breath and as he let it out, it shot the first and second stars in a row with a practiced rhythm. Sure enough, they both landed the bull's eye.

"HO my god, dude, that was _awesome!_" Dean shouted, raising his arms in the air like Sam had just scored a touchdown.

"Dude, this is so cool," Sam agreed, sounding fascinated as he walked towards the dart board and pulled out the ninja stars. "Why are _you_ sucking?" Sam jabbed playfully, turning to Dean. Dean shrugged.

"I dunno. I'll try the knives," he offered, and Sam nodded, willing to find something Dean was good at. Dean wasn't acting competitive or even sore about Sam being better at the ninja stars, but somewhere inside Sam just wanted Dean to have his moment, too. Sam grabbed the six ninja stars in hand carefully (they were pretty sharp), and waited for Dean to pull out a few of the, 'midget knives,' from the bag.

"Okay no but before we do the knives, try doing more than two stars in a row," Dean requested, genuinely wanting to see. Sam grinned and gave a laugh.

"Okay okay okay... Here," he said as he sidled back with all six stars and exaggerated his position to get ready. Dean grabbed his beer and walked over towards Sam beyond the angle of danger. Sam stopped a second and stood up to take another long swig of his beer before getting back again.

"Okay ready?" Sam smiled at Dean.

"Yeah kill it," Dean encouraged.

"'Kay, okay," Sam whispered, then began shooting the stars one by one in a fast, steady rhythm, and nailing the bull's eye each time. Each bull's eye warranted a 'whoop,' from Dean and when the sixth had been thrown, both of them saw it hit one of the previously thrown stars in the bull's eye and drop off onto the floor.

"YEAH! WHAT'S UP!" Sam shouted, laughing, as Dean was already approaching him with his own holler of approval. They high-fived as Dean stepped up to where Sam had been as Sam walked over to pull out the embedded stars. He stood up from picking the last one up and spotted Dean staring at the knives. Dean looked back at Sam with a skeptical look on his face.

"What?"

"Dude, if I'm good with the midget knives and not the ninja stars I'm gonna be a little disappointed."

"Well calling them 'midget knives,' doesn't make them sound very cool," Sam pointed out comically as he walked over to Dean. "Lemme see one."

Dean held one of the knives out to Sam as he sat down on the bed near Dean. He examined them with his brother, who gave a small chortle of laughter.

"I know you're right, but look at them, man. They're like knives for midgets..."

"Are not," Sam argued absently, feeling the weight in his hand and maneuvering it around in his palm expertly. Dean noticed and tried the same maneuvers.

"Oh hey I can do that, too," Dean said softly as he performed the same flips and turns of the knife just as well as Sam could. Sam looked up and nodded to the dart board.

"Try 'em," he suggested. Dean shrugged and positioned himself. He threw the knife with excellent posture and eyes, yet the thing missed the bull's eye by about two, three inches. Sam frowned. "Try again," he pushed, willing to let Dean take his time. He was already a ninja; time for Dean to be like the guy in Desperado, maybe.

Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. Dean tried the rest of the midget knives and they all either missed the bull's eye by a few inches or hit the wall. Nevertheless, they all landed on point, digging their sharp blades into the cork of the dart board or soft wood of the wall.

"Huh," Sam huffed at the end of Dean's performance. Dean stood up straight and looked at Sam, eyebrow raised. "What? So you kind of suck with the midget knives," Sam teased. Dean rolled his eyes, smiling, and grabbed his beer.

"Whatever. Didn't even want to be good at the midget knives. I'm not a midget."

"_I'm_ not a midget," Sam retorted, "so let's see how good I am with them."

Dean grinned and gave a long sigh, gesturing his place to Sam with the same hand that held his beer. He walked over and grabbed the knives embedded in the wall and dart board and handed them to Sam.

"Okay go," Dean said, unable to hide his genuine enthusiasm for Sam's ability. Sam couldn't help but feel awesome that Dean was so pleased. He bit his lip at the wide smile he gave Dean right before he shot the knives, one by one, into the board's bull's eye.

"_God_, that is so cool, dude," Dean said at the end of Sam's run, "You should be in a _circus_," Dean joked as he walked over to grab the knives. "Oh hey yeah and there are midgets in circuses! You and the midgets could like hang out and shoot knives."

"You're painting quite the picture there, Dean," Sam deadpanned and Dean laughed as he went over to the duffel to look at the other weapons they had. They were all precision weapons - Dean had determined which to bring into the room by whether they were suitable as dart substitutes. Sadly, it seemed as though Dean's shooting skills when it came to darts were nowhere near Sam's. Dean shrugged it off easily but as the night wore on Sam started to get bored. Dean was a great cheerleader, but Sam wanted camaraderie - especially after his third beer. He decided to stop playing and asked for a break as he pulled out the desk chair and brought it over closer to Dean, his beer in hand. Dean was reclining on the bed closest to the motel door, lazily watching Sam.

"So why do you think you're shit with the darts stuff?" Sam asked lightly. It wasn't really a jab; Dean was obviously better than most people with the blades, just not as good as Sam. Dean shrugged and took a sip of his beer.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, shrugging. "When I was cleaning the guns, I felt more familiar with them in my hand. Might just be that I'm better with guns."

"I can buy that," Sam nodded. "We should go shooting some time," he offered, "'n try that theory out."

Dean grinned.

"I'm in, totally."

Sam nodded and took another sip of his beer, realizing for the first time that he was looking forward to the future. The silence remained, but neither of them felt like saying anything more at the moment. It was surprisingly comfortable, especially for Sam who felt like he was the type of person that would push for conversation in the midst of a pause in order to stave off awkward silences. Dean put him at ease though, and obviously didn't mind the lull. He grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, lowering the sound as he flipped through the channels.

"How old you think Bobby sounded?" Dean spoke up suddenly. Sam took the question and discarded his own thoughts immediately.

"Um, I don't know. Sounded maybe like... Older. Definitely older. Forties? Fifties?" Sam guessed, looking to Dean to see if he agreed. Dean nodded, thinking.

"Yeah I got that, too. He seemed to know a lot about us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think he knew something was off. S'why he wanted to come out 'an see us."

"Where we meeting him tomorrow?"

"Paula's diner."

"D'you know where that is?"

"Yeah I looked it up - s'like ten minutes from here."

Sam nodded and took another pull from his beer. He turned around to look at the TV - Dean had landed on a game - Dallas Cowboys were playing. Sam smiled and angled his chair towards the screen.

"Cowboys, right?" Sam prompted, asking which team Dean was rooting for.

"Yuh," Dean responded, smiling, "Want another?" he asked, nodding at Sam's nearly finished beer.

"Yeah why not," Sam replied happily, handing Dean his empty bottle to take back into the kitchen with him. Dean grabbed it and got up. He stepped towards the counter and set Sam's empty bottle down with the rest of them. He moved over to the small fridge and opened it, surveying the contents.

Dean was fine with being worse than Sam at the darts; he had an unerring sense of confidence that his aim was excellent with a gun in his hand. Still, it kind of nagged at him that he wasn't particularly adept with weapons that involved an assailant being closer to him than two or three feet. If he was ever caught off guard-

"Hey Dean can we-UH," Sam felt a sharp elbow nail him in the solar plexis before he could get his full sentence out. Stumbling back with the force, he hit the wall holding his chest, gasping for air.

"Holy shit, Sam!" Dean yelled as he immediately appeared in front of Sam, who'd begun to slide down the wall into a crouch. Dean snorted with laughter as he braced Sam gently against the wall, "Dude I'm so sorry." Sam gave one look at Dean and managed a small huff of laughter as he nodded and tried to give Dean a thumbs up that he was all right. "You came up behind me. I didn't even know you were there..." Dean explained. Sam caught his breath and gave a slow exhale, then looked up at Dean with a glint in his eye. Dean cocked his head back, surprised by Sam's expression. Sam broke into a wide smile and stood back up. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, looking all too excited.

"Do it again."

"What?" Dean asked, confused, "Hit you again?"

Sam nodded and beckoned Dean with his hands as he adopted a fighter's stance. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"C'mon, just try it one more time - I won't get mad," Sam promised, his eyes bright with the dare.

"I'm not worried about you getting _mad_ at me, Sam," Dean replied honestly. He stared at Sam: the kid was game. "Seriously?" He asked, this time serious.

"Yeah," Sam replied, ready. Dean felt like this was against his better judgment, but hey. They were both a little drunk and Sam had just told him twice, so...

"Okay same place?" Dean asked about where Sam wanted to get hit.

"No. Surprise me," Sam challenged and Dean shook his head with a smile.

"Okay. You asked for it," Dean shrugged and positioned himself. He eyed Sam playfully and counted down in his head from three, two, one...

Dean feinted left and took a shot at Sam's right side. Sam caught his arm immediately and Dean shot forward, weaving his left foot behind Sam's and using the arm Sam had grabbed to elbow the kid in the stomach. At the blow, Sam grunted and stumbled back, tripping over Dean's foot. Before Sam fell, Dean balanced him up again and stopped the spar. Neither of them were breathing that heavily. Dean was smiling at the control in his movements even in that small display. Sam spoke up first.

"Okay I was holding back - were you holding back?" Sam asked. Dean smiled wider.

"Yeah."

"Get the beers," Sam murmured as he turned around and jogged into the room.

Ten minutes later both the beds had been propped up against the walls to make space.

"Okay ready?" Sam asked, holding his beer in hand next to Dean as they leaned against the side table, looking at the open floor. Dean nodded to Sam and they clinked beers and drank. They set them down on the table and moved onto the floor.

"Okay no holding back," Sam established. Dean smirked.

"No holding back," he repeated, taking a few prep jumps before setting himself into the right posture. Sam was steady, waiting, and Dean was already starting to get the feeling like he knew the ropes of this game better than Sam. Sam wasn't a ball of energy - he was sleek and cunning, but he wasn't shifting his balance as often as Dean - he wasn't practiced in wiring every muscle with the split-second reaction time Dean felt running through him. _Interesting_, Dean thought, just as Sam closed in to make the first shot. Dean ducked the blow and aimed for Sam's shoulder. Sam maneuvered off and it barely glanced him as he moved in to elbow Dean's back. Sam hit true and Dean had to bend into it by kneeling to the ground. He wrapped an arm around Sam's leg at the knee and used his palm to jam up and against Sam's side at the same time he pulled up on his knee, effectively knocking the kid off-balance. Sam stumbled, his knee clutched in the air by Dean's grip, and was nearly about to crash to the ground when Dean grabbed Sam's wrist and pulled him in the other direction towards him.

"You all right-you good?" Dean asked quickly as Sam balanced out on his feet. Sam nodded, smiling.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Again?" Dean asked, starting to have fun. Sam wiped his mouth and nodded, his eyes bright.

This time, Dean moved in first. He aimed for Sam's shoulder and Sam caught him with both hands, then pulled him forward to knee him in the stomach. Dean leaned in, anticipating the knee and used his elbow to knock Sam's kneecap. Sam grunted and used both hands to pump a hit against the center of Dean's spine below him. Dean shouted an expletive that expressed both pain and amusement as he recovered and elbowed Sam in the stomach on his way up. Sam gave another grunt and attempted a hit straight in to Dean's chest. Dean blocked and tried the same hit on Sam. Sam blocked. Suddenly the two of them entered into a hit and block routine that felt so familiar it was more like a dance than a fight. Finally, Sam feinted a hit to the left and Dean grasped Sam's hand, pulling him around and backwards forcefully until Sam was close to dragging his heels under him. Just as Dean thought he had the upper hand, he felt Sam's thumbs and nails dig into the undersides of Dean's wrists.

"Holy _shit_ _OW_!" Dean yelled, dropping Sam to the floor. Sam was heaving breaths as he laughed on the floor. "You piece of _shit_," Dean yelled, grinning, as he launched back at his brother, pinning him down. Sam was still laughing as he tried to catch his breath under Dean. He got a hand free and slapped Dean _hard_. Dean took it easily and retaliated _harder_, slightly stunning him. Dizzy, Sam vaguely raised his hand to his face when Dean grabbed it again to pin it down on the floor over Sam's head. At that, Sam suddenly felt Dean pressing his thumbs into the undersides of _Sam's_ wrists. His whole body shuddered to get away but Dean had him down for the count.

"_Dean!"_ Sam laughed in pain as he started to writhe around to get his arms free.

"_See?_ ...how much that _hurts_?!" Dean messed, getting a rush watching Sam react to the pain of the tactic he'd used against Dean.

"Ah ha, yeah, Dean, I get it-I get it-" Sam wheezed as he struggled under the heavy weight of his brother and the pressure on his wrists.

"Say you give up!" Dean demanded, pushing his thumbs down harder.

"Dean stop!" Sam called slowly, tears of laughter and pain welling in his eyes. Dean wouldn't let go though, and Sam started to lessen his attempts to get out from under, realizing that at some point his brother would just let go of his own accord soon.

"Say it!"

"NO!" Sam laughed again, unwilling to give in.

Dean was actually just having fun power playing Sam; Sam noticed he wasn't make any additional moves against him. He realized he was making it worse by struggling and decided to just relax under Dean and catch his breath. Getting his heart rate back to normal, he noticed an amulet hanging from Dean's neck.

"You give up?" Dean asked again, betting all that Sam would say it soon. Sam sighed and looked into Dean's playful green eyes.

"All right..." Sam asked casually. Dean pushed against Sam's wrists again, eliciting a whiny yell from his little brother.

"Ow stop it, _Dean_!" Sam called in the midst of a choked laugh. Dean laughed over Sam's face, thinking it made Sam sound like he was all of eight or nine years old. "God your breath is terrible, dude," Sam wheezed again.

"Oh really? Sorry, here-" Dean inhaled and blew a heavy breath straight into Sam's face, making Sam laugh and moan with disgust at the same time.

"Oh god that's _rank_," Sam cried as he suddenly resumed trying to get out from under Dean's hold again. For a brief few seconds, Dean just watched his brother spend out his energy wrestling, but really just squirming, to get out of Dean's grasp.

"Say it! _Say it!_" Dean was laughing so hard by then and after one final desperate attempt to roll Dean off him using his hips, Sam suddenly went limp again, breathing heavily, face red. Sam's eyes wandered around the room, wondering how in the hell he'd get out from Dean's hold without giving in. He turned to look up again straight into Dean's eyes. "You know this whole time I could've kneed you in the balls, you know," Sam deadpanned, still huffing with exertion. Dean's eyes widened.

"You wouldn't _dare_," he said menacingly and Sam laughed, then choked it back when Dean pushed into him again.

"Ow _Jesus_ Dean I give up - I give up!" Sam croaked, chuckling, then gasping as Dean pushed off Sam and stood up, extending his hand to help his little brother up. Sam didn't take it, though. Sore, he rolled over on his side on the floor.

"Okay so we know what you're good at now," Sam coughed weakly. Dean smiled and tilted his head, his brow furrowing.

"You okay?" He asked appraisingly, hoping he wouldn't have to feel guilty.

Sam coughed again.

"Yeah just gimme a second," he grunted, then slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position. Dean cringed, not sure whether he'd gone too far or not and just watched Sam awkwardly. Sam had been laughing while Dean had whaled on him, so he hadn't thought he was actually hurting him that much or anything...

Sam pushed his palm against his head and sighed. He got up, finally, and looked at Dean.

"I've been your brother for barely forty-eight hours and already I feel like it's been too long," Sam said bitingly. Dean grinned.

Dean wasn't so surprised now, why he wasn't as great with the knives and stars: he liked a fair fist fight. Must also appreciate quick deaths if his intuition was correct that he was a good shot with a gun. None of this fancy knife- or stars- play for him: you either die fast or get beaten to a pulp when you messed with him. Dean understood the philosophy and found himself appreciating it. It wasn't a bad one, as philosophies went. Very cut and dry... and honest.

Dean handed Sam his beer and took his own from the table.

"What's up with the necklace?" Sam asked. Dean looked down and realized the necklace he'd found on him had fallen out from the inside of his shirt while they'd been sparring. He raised it up and looked at it, letting his fingers feel the contours of the amulet. He looked back up at Sam and shrugged.

"I dunno. I like it."

"S'weird. Never would've pegged you as a guy that wears much jewelry," Sam teased half-heartedly as he took another sip of his beer. Dean shrugged again, feeling the amulet.

"Me neither, but I don't know..." Dean trailed off, considering, "Makes me feel good."

"That's a clue to who we are, maybe, then," Sam offered. "We should ask Bobby where you got it - maybe it'll help us remember - if it actually makes you feel good, I mean."

Dean nodded absently.

"Sure, yeah. Put that one down on a long list of questions we're gonna need to ask the guy."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes.

"No kidding, right?"

Sam felt his back as he stretched it, a look of discomfort flashing past his features.

"You okay?" Dean asked again.

"Yeah," Sam whispered the lie. Dean snorted with laughter at his brother's expense and took another sip of his beer. "Laugh all you want, Dean," Sam pointed at him, "But if I had had a ninja star you'd 'a been dead meat-"

"Yeah whatever weirdo," Dean countered, "Keep telling yourself that."

Sam smiled shyly and looked at his beer.

"Uh, I feel like water," he confessed, and moved into the kitchen. Dean followed him. Sam opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

"It's way cooler to be Chuck Norris than Jet Li anyway," Dean stated, watching Sam, as he took another gulp of his beer. Sam stopped and turned around to look at Dean as though he was crazy.

"You're kidding, right? Jet Li could kick Chuck Norris' ass in like a second," Sam said as if there was no contest. Dean nearly sputtered.

"_What_?!"

* * *

**Writer's Notes**: A few points about this chapter. (1) I tried my best with the fight choreography descriptions. I actually kind of wanted their moves to be a little cooler than they turned out to be, and while I have actually choreographed fights before, it's difficult to actually write them out. (2) Probably should've given Dean more skills with the stars/knives than I did here, but it was meant to juxtapose his skills with hand-to-hand combat. Maybe they'll come out later when it really counts. (3) In the last chapter's comments, some of you guys mentioned that Bobby was a bit OOC. Luckily, I kept you guys in the dark last chapter during the scene where Dean fills Sam in on what his whole conversation was like with Bobby. Honestly, I didn't really have a lot in mind for how Bobby was going to react, so you guys did an awesome job gearing me into having him decide to come meet them. So, thank you to BranchSuper, Souless666, emebalia, & AshleyMarie84 for your awesome feedback (4) This was not just a, "boys-will-be-boys," chapter. I don't have any brothers, but I do have sisters... And I wrote this from experience. Granted, we never got into playing with weapons, but seriously, big sisters/brothers: you torture us - love, little siblings the world over. ;)

Thank you so much for reading and let me know what you thought in the comments if you can spare the time! Cheers! ~ Alex


	10. Chapter 10

_Previously..._

_"Uh, I feel like water," he confessed, and moved into the kitchen. Dean followed him. Sam opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water._

_"It's way cooler to be Chuck Norris than Jet Li anyway," Dean stated, watching Sam, as he took another gulp of his beer. Sam stopped and turned around to look at Dean as though he was crazy._

_"You're kidding, right? Jet Li could kick Chuck Norris' ass in like a second," Sam said as if there was no contest. Dean nearly sputtered._

_"What?!"_

* * *

Dean cracked an eye open to look over at Sam. The kid was sound asleep and for a second Dean felt a pang of regret for possibly going a little too hard on Sam last night. He let it go, though, and got out of bed. Took a shower, brushed his teeth, got dressed, and eventually walked back out into the room. Sam was just waking up.

"Hey," he said absently as he walked over to look at his wallet on the desk. Sam groaned and Dean looked over. Sam was pushing himself up into a sitting position at the head of the bed.

"Hey," Sam replied tiredly, rubbing his face. He dropped his hands and turned to Dean, blinking up at him blearily.

"Uh," Dean felt a sharp twinge of guilt at the sight of Sam's face and quickly moved over to Sam's side. "Dude," Dean gave a small laugh of remorse, reaching up to point at Sam's jaw line.

"What?" Sam asked, hoping it wouldn't be what he thought it was as he moved his jaw around and felt how sore it was. Just as he angled it a certain way, a sharp stab of pain blew through him and he clutched the side of his face. "Ah, shit," he breathed, and Dean gave another small laugh.

"Dude I'm sorry. We should've iced it last night - I didn't know I'd smacked you that hard."

"Nah whatever I didn't know either," Sam murmured wearily. His words were clipped, though; Dean could sense Sam was a little peeved. As if in confirmation, Sam whipped the covers off of him and got out of bed quickly, leaving Dean still seated on the side of his bed. "I'm gonna take a shower," Sam stated coolly as he ruffled through his bag.

"Okay," Dean said lightly, now feeling even more guilty. "I'm gonna go grab some coffee. You want?"

"Yeah. When're we seeing Bobby?" Sam stopped to look at Dean, his eyes fixed with angry determination. Dean, surprised by Sam's expression, stumbled over his words.

"I... It's... nine-thirty right now. I said we'd meet him at ten."

"Uh and so when the hell were you planning on waking me up?" Sam asked, sounding more pissed than he should've been. Dean shrugged.

"I don't know. After I got us coffee, I guess?"

"Okay well," Sam sniped, "Just FYI, I need at least half an hour to wake up before going out, okay?"

"It's nine-thirty! You're awake," Dean pointed out defensively, not sure why Sam was even on the offensive about this.

"No, this gives me like twenty minutes, not thirty. You said the drive was ten minutes last night," Sam shot back at him. Dean looked at him like a deer in headlights. "Whatever," Sam finished, and walked into the bathroom. He slammed the door.

"Gees, dude needs his caffeine fix in the morning, that's for sure," Dean murmured to himself as he grabbed the keys and left to pick up coffee.

Sam looked at his reflection in the mirror. Annoyed didn't even begin to explain how he felt at the sight of his swollen jaw - it wasn't that discolored, but it was still noticeable. It would've gone down a lot more had they iced it last night.

Now he'd have to go out and meet Bobby looking like this. Also, while he desperately didn't want to admit it to himself, he was a little hurt that Dean had been so callous as to have hit him that hard. He knew they'd been drunk, but still... When Dean had made the shot to his jaw, it hadn't even been a fair one: Dean had already had Sam pinned down. There'd been no need for it and now Sam was going to have to go meet this guy Bobby with a bruised face. Awesome.

Dean got back to the motel room about fifteen minutes later. Sam was just coming out of the shower.

"Hey got you cream and sugar - figured you'd like it sweet," Dean teased, handing Sam his coffee. At the jab, Sam pursed his lips and turned away to grab a clean shirt.

"Just set it on the table. We ready to go?"

"Um, yeah," Dean replied, surprised Sam wasn't going for the coffee immediately. "Think we should grab a gun each or something for this?"

Sam pulled his shirt on and walked back to get his coffee from off the table, not meeting Dean's eyes. He took a sip of the black coffee and Dean watched in amusement at the quick flash of distaste that Sam quickly covered as he took another sip.

"Do what you want. I'm not gonna take anything - we'll be in public the whole time," Sam finished bitterly, again unwilling to meet Dean's eyes as he grabbed his wallet and brushed past him for the door. "I'll be in the car," he murmured as he closed the door, leaving Dean behind in the motel room. Dean considered whether to bring his gun and decided on it. He walked over to the weapons duffle and pulled it out, weighing it in his hand before tucking it into the waistband against his back.

Dean also gave a few seconds' thought about why Sam was pissed off. He wasn't oblivious - he knew Sam was pissed about last night - and Dean did genuinely feel bad about it, but what was done was done. Dean had said he was sorry. It's not like he could do or say anything more. He left the motel with the keys jangling in hand, ready to get the car started and head over to Paula's Diner.

The ride over there was tense. Sam was reading the journal in the front, completely ignoring Dean. Five minutes left to go before they arrived, Dean felt the silence getting to him.

"You okay?" Dean asked seriously.

"Yeah I'm fine, Dean," Sam answered quickly.

"What're you reading?"

"I'm reading about how we can test Bobby to make sure he's human," Sam informed him clinically.

"Anything good?"

"Yeah don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about this guy Bobby possibly being a monster?" Dean clarified, wondering how Sam could think he could not worry about that.

Sam looked up through the windshield, still refusing to look Dean in the eyes, and sighed. He ticked things off on his fingers as he spoke.

"We've got holy water in the back - if it touches him and it smokes, we'll know he's a demon. My money clip is silver - shapeshifters and werewolves are allergic to it, so we'll make him touch that..."

"Or the flatware might be silverware-?"

"At Paula's Diner, Dean?"

"Okay yeah," Dean gave in to that one, giving a slight smile.

"Other than that, there aren't too many monsters that'd be able to show their faces in a place like a diner in broad daylight."

"Okay cool," Dean nodded. Sam got comfortable again as he looked back down at the journal. Dean let him be, figuring he'd eventually just burn his grudge out over time.

They pulled into the diner's parking lot. Friendly place full of kitsch. When they walked in, no one called out to them, so Dean asked the hostess for a booth. Sam shrugged into the center of the bench seat. He was surprised and annoyed to see Dean wave for him to go in further.

"Take the other seat, Dean," he murmured as Dean just pushed into his side. As much as Sam wanted to hold his ground, he really didn't want Dean touching him at the moment. He relented and moved in closer to the window, sure to keep his distance even if they were sharing the seat now.

"Anything to start? Coffee?" The waitress asked, having professionally ignored the uncomfortable exchange between her two patrons.

"Two coffees, please," Dean smiled at her.

"Cream and sugar?"

"Yeah," Dean answered before Sam could say anything. Sam gave a sigh and a long-suffering smile at the waitress before she nodded and turned away. Sam pulled the flask of holy water out and flipped the glass that would soon be Bobby's around to pour it in. He felt a nudge from Dean.

"C'mon I know you like cream and sugar in your coffee," Dean grumbled playfully.

"Dean..." Sam said in exasperation, finding his brother to be insanely obnoxious at the moment. He didn't want to go into it, though, so he just trailed off at his brother's name, shaking his head.

"What? What, Sam?" Dean challenged, trying to get Sam to spit it out.

"Nothing," Sam replied severely, placing the flask back into his jacket pocket and avoiding Dean's eyes.

"All right," Dean said airily, leaning back and putting his arms around the back of the bench. At the gesture, Sam leaned forward over the table, completely cutting Dean from his peripheral vision. Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam turned to the left to look out the window and try to spot this guy Bobby. They waited in silence, the waitress coming by a few minutes later to pour coffee. She left with a smile and still Sam just kept his eyes on the parking lot outside. Dean started growing agitated with Sam's stoicism and shifted in his seat.

"Hey," Sam murmured, straightening up.

"What?" Dean turned, trying to follow Sam's gaze. His eyes landed on a man determinedly trudging his way across the parking lot. His head was down, a dirty trucker's hat completely concealing his face. He wore a beat-up vest over a worn-out long-sleeved shirt and baggy, wrinkled jeans. His sleeves were bunched up above his elbows and his gait was directed. Dean's initial impression that he was moving slowly, but realized the guy had crossed the parking lot swiftly.

"Y'think?" Dean mumbled to Sam.

"I dunno," Sam whispered, watching the man finally look up as he reached the front entrance of the diner. He caught a glimpse of the man's grim expression before he entered into the front vestibule. Before he knew it, the man was in front of the hostess and turning around, his eyes searching.

Sam felt Dean shift uncertainly next to him just as the man's eyes zeroed in on them. The man's eyes lit up and nodded at them. Dean returned the gesture. Bobby glanced at the hostess, pointed in their direction, said a few words, then moved down the aisle to their table. Dean kept his right hand on the bench seat back, unconsciously keeping Sam inside his radius of control. His left hand slipped down below the table to reach his gun. He slowly pulled it out and leveled it at the floor, his muscles tensing and readied to redirect his aim into the guy if he made one wrong move.

Bobby stilled as he reached the table. He stood still a foot or so away from the table. His eyes were surprisingly sharp as he stared. Dean returned the gaze with a slight air of hostility.

"Bobby," Sam spoke up, his voice steady and serious. Bobby's eyes flicked to Sam, calculating, assessing. He grimaced, his lips curling back with irritation and wiped his jaw.

"Why don't you sit down?" Dean said with a threat in his tone. Bobby eyed Dean and gave a small nod, sliding into the seat across from them.

"Hands on the table, Bobby," Dean requested again. Bobby complied, looking back and forth between the brothers. He fixed his stare on Sam, disappointment evident in his expression.

"You don't remember either, do you?" Bobby asked gruffly, already knowing the answer.

"Don't answer that," Dean said immediately, having sensed Sam start to relax. They couldn't tell this stranger the truth yet though. Dean heard a barely audible sigh of annoyance next to him.

"Bobby, will you drink the water?" Sam asked softly. Bobby's eyebrows lifted in surprise and tilted his head to the side, looking at the water.

"Sure, Sam," he said gently as he picked up the glass and took a sip. Nothing happened. "Tastes stale."

Dean handled the gun in his hand, keeping steady. So far so good. Sam pushed his money clip across the table. Bobby cocked an eyebrow up at Sam.

"Touch it," Sam asked, and Bobby's face fell.

"You boys," he sighed, his voice gravelly but still amused, "are double fucked right now, aren't-chya?"

"-means we're twice as likely to shoot you, man," Dean retaliated menacingly. Bobby turned to look at Dean, starting to relax into the situation and leaning back against the seat.

"Okay, look," he started, pulling forward again and making Dean flinch slightly at the old man's quick movement. Dean was fast picking up on the fact that this man's appearance was a contradiction. Just as he thought this, the man pulled a pocket knife from his side, flicked it open, and looked at both of them meaningfully. "This is a silver knife," he stated, and with that, he pushed the knife into his forearm enough to draw blood. He finished and flicked the knife shut, then dropped it with a clatter onto the table. "Just touching silver doesn't tell you whether I'm a shifter or not, you idjits," he huffed with judgment, then looked at them openly. "Okay?"

Dean pursed his lips with a slight nod.

"Okay," Dean agreed, cocking his head to the side.

"Okay," Bobby replied, a note of relief in his tone. He gestured to them with his hand. "Your turn."

Dean sighed, realizing that Bobby's request was only fair. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose for two seconds before reaching for the glass of holy water and taking a sip. He handed it to Dean when he was done and reached for the knife on the table. Dean pushed his gun back into his waistband and took a quick sip of the water as he watched Sam give a quick slash to his skin with the knife.

"This is..." Dean murmured as he rolled up his sleeve, "...fucking... " Dean grabbed the blade from Sam, "...ridiculous," he finished as he pushed the knife across his flesh to draw blood. He dropped the blade with irritation and shoved it across the table. Bobby caught it by reflex and packed it into his pocket again.

"Okay. So," Dean put his hands up to Bobby openly. "How... are you?" Dean asked comically. Bobby grunted and rolled his eyes.

"Do either of you remember anything?"

Both Sam and Dean shook their heads.

"No," Sam replied.

"Not a thing," Dean clarified.

"Nothing about each other?" Bobby pressed.

"No. But actually... Sam remembers law precedents. We both remember the movie Desperado."

Sam nodded.

"Yeah and I know Latin exorcisms by heart."

"I can strip and clean all the guns."

"I can throw ninja stars-"

"Okay okay I got it," Bobby interrupted, disturbed. He rubbed his forehead, thinking, "Shit," he murmured. The table hung in silence, Sam and Dean waiting for Bobby to come to terms.

"Bobby," Sam said softly, "do you know what's going on? What's happened to us?"

Bobby turned his head back to look at the brothers, his hand casually covering his mouth as he thought.

"Yeah," he sighed and leaned back against the seat. "I think we're dealing with a Lucidan."

"A what?" Dean asked just as the waitress came over to them.

"Hi there. Have you guys decided?" She turned to look at Bobby, "Coffee, too, sir?"

"Sure coffee sounds great, thanks," Bobby replied easily. The waitress nodded and grabbed her pad to write the order down. "How 'bout food?" She prompted again as she wrote.

"Yeah we're gonna have Paula's skillet, a couple of eggs scrambled for me and the spinach tomato omelette."

"Okay great, thanks," the waitress smiled as she took the order and walked away. Bobby turned back to the boys and took in their slightly disgruntled expressions that Bobby had just ordered for them. Bobby gave a slight smile.

"Trust me, all right? You two may have lost your memories but I haven't," he said lazily.

"Okay," Dean coughed, getting used to the idea, "So," he trailed off, looking at the man, "you must know us pretty well."

Again, Bobby gave a small smile and nodded.

"You could say that."

"Um, Bobby, what were you saying before? What's a Lucidan?" Sam asked, refocusing the conversation. Bobby's eyes fixed on to Sam and nodded.

"Okay. A Lucidan's a rare creature. It feeds off particularly powerful memories. Its heyday was back in the dark ages when cults were big..."

"But - Bobby - we don't remember _anything_," Sam interrupted. "If this thing feeds off powerful memories, how come we've forgotten _everything_?"

Bobby tilted his head sympathetically, looking at Sam.

"Lucidans died off as cults started either gaining legitimacy or crumbled. The surviving ones turned from feeding off cult fervor to the less powerful - yet still sustaining - memories of individuals."

"Wait, I don't get that. 'Powerful memories,' could be anything. If they like powerful _group_ memories, why didn't Lucidans start going to wherever there was a war going on or something?" Dean asked bluntly. Bobby pointed to Dean, nodding.

"Right. It's because Lucidans feed off _positive_ memories."

At that, the three of them stilled, thinking about the implications. Dean inhaled quickly, about to say something, then caught himself. He tried again.

"Positive... Uh... how?"

Bobby cocked his head to the side and gave a wry smile, eyes twinkling.

"Positive like _good_, Dean. Good memories," he said kindly. "It's literally why you can't remember a damn thing about your brother. Same with you, Sam," Bobby gestured lightly to Sam who shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Sam was still pissed at Dean and didn't particularly feel inclined to believe his brother represented great memories.

Dean, on the other hand, took Bobby's words to heart.

"Huh," he said in thought then turned to look at Sam appraisingly. Sam felt Dean's eyes on him and blinked skyward, praying for patience, and turned his gaze to look directly at Dean with a skeptical expression.

Dean grimaced with distaste and finally pulled his arm off the seatback away from Sam. As soon as Dean broke eye contact, Sam looked away too. A second later Sam glanced back up to Bobby, who'd just witnessed the interaction.

"You two okay?" He asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Dean snorted a sarcastic laugh and ignored the question.

"Okay but there's a hole in your argument here," Dean started, "You say this thing feeds off positive memories, but I don't even remember negative memories," he finished. Bobby nodded, understanding Dean's objection.

"Right, yeah. Well," Bobby noticed Sam turning to look out the window, squinting in thought, "To compensate for the overabundance of positive group fervor found in cults, the Lucidan absorbs the memories of individuals in an all-or-none fashion. The memories you guys still have are a result of some loop holes in what the Lucidan picks up..."

"Like what loop holes?"

"Well," Bobby sighed, thinking, "Instinct, for one. It can't take that out of you. Skillsets that were ingrained in you at an early age," Bobby said casually. He glanced at Sam; he was pinching the bridge of his nose, but still following him. Bobby turned back to Dean. "I think apathy might play a role in this, too. Sam remembering court cases back from his time at Stanford-"

Sam and Dean jerked with surprise.

"Whoa, really?" Dean asked excitedly. Bobby frowned with confusion.

"I actually studied at Stanford?" Sam asked at the same time, his voice oddly strained.

"Yeah," Bobby grunted, "Why?"

"I remembered that!" Dean volunteered, smiling, "I swear to god, Bobby, I totally kept thinking and saying that Sam had studied law at Stanford."

"Ah," Bobby said slowly, understanding. His face fell, though, as he realized why Dean could've recalled the detail.

"Bobby, what? What's wrong?" Dean asked, noticing the man's sadness. "I don't get it; isn't this a good thing that I remembered that?"

Bobby winced and shrugged.

"Kind of," Bobby eyed Dean with sympathy, "I don't want to go into it, but really it just means that the memory was too negative for the Lucidan to absorb," he explained apologetically.

Dean sunk into his seat, sighing.

"Oh. That's... weird."

There was a short pause of silence at the table when suddenly Sam started moving around in his seat.

"Hey, uh, Dean can I get out," Sam murmured distractedly. Dean glanced at Sam and moved to stand up.

"Yeah y'okay?" Dean asked lightly.

"What? Yeah I'll be right back," Sam said airily as he stood and passed by Dean towards the bathrooms.

"'kay," Dean murmured, sliding back into the seat.

Bobby stared at Dean, considering, as Dean settled in his seat.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, referring to the brothers of them. His eyes pierced into Dean. Dean looked up openly.

"Ah nah it's nothing," Dean waved Bobby's concern off. Bobby folded his arms against his chest.

"Dean." Bobby raised an eyebrow. Dean returned the look challengingly. Bobby obviously knew them but he was still a stranger to Dean. Bobby rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Where'd the kid get the upper cut?" Bobby asked lazily. Dean's eyes widened in surprise. How the hell did he know-

"Dean I've known you two since you were kids," Bobby answered Dean's thoughts again. Dean grimaced, annoyed that he was so easy to read. Bobby leaned forward over the table, fixing sincere eyes on Dean.

"Listen, Dean, um. Don't... hurt... Sam," he struggled to say. Dean pulled back, indignant.

"What the hell are you talking about? I-"

"Ah... Dean, just listen to me for a second," Bobby interrupted, "Sam's not a stranger, he's not your friend, he's not your partner, he's your _brother_, your _little _brother."

"Yeahh-?" Dean trailed off, bewildered with what Bobby was trying to say. Bobby rolled his eyes, having a tough time. He's never had to put it this bluntly.

"You're... you're all Sam has, Dean," Bobby stressed, hoping against hope that Dean would _get_ it. Dean saw the candidly honest sentiment in Bobby's eyes and swallowed nervously.

"Is he all I have?" Dean asked hesitantly. Bobby sighed sadly and nodded.

"Yes."

"What about our father?"

"He's dead, Dean," Bobby said solemnly, his own eyes starting to water, though he'd never admit it, as he watched Dean struggle with the revelation. "I'm sorry."

Dean nodded, feeling a vague sense of loss. Dean rubbed his eyes and face clear and sighed.

"But, Dean, what I was saying before. Sam is a force unto himself, don't get me wrong. But if you two are working on baseline dynamics - and I think you are - then you've got to know. Sam.. _needs_... you," Bobby tried to explain. "You understand?"

Dean listened carefully, reading between the lines.

"Bobby," he started hesitantly, "when we were growing up-" Dean trailed off, unsure how to frame the question. Bobby's eyes widened and he nodded encouragingly.

"Yeah, Dean. Your father was a hunter. He did the best he could; he was a good man. But... he wasn't home all the time."

Dean licked his lips, nodding. It was surprisingly easy to adjust to this information - it was a heavy weight, the level of responsibility that seemed to come with what Bobby was saying. But it settled comfortably on his shoulders. Like it belonged there.

"Okay," Dean said simply, done with the conversation. "You think our food's coming?"

Bobby, willing to take the shift in topic, shrugged and turned around to search for their waitress.

"Ah she's coming now, actually," Bobby murmured. Bobby turned back around and saw Dean glance at his watch.

"Sam's been gone for awhile," Dean muttered.

"Mm, he didn't look so great when he left," Bobby commented as Dean moved to stand up.

"I'm gonna be right back," Dean said briefly, stretching and turning away to go to the bathroom.

Dean strolled down the aisle, his pace starting to quicken as his thoughts started cycling over where Sam was and why he was taking so long. His jaw clenched with mounting anxiety. He reached the men's room and banged the door open.

* * *

**Writer's Note #1**: Ah, okay, yeah. Even _I_ am mad at myself for cutting off here. But I set out to do 4k chapters (a stipulation I began at the outset of this story as something of an experiment), so I'm cliff hangering you guys. No worries, though: I've already written a significant portion of Ch 11, so the next update should roll around quite soon.

**Writer's Note #2:** A serious thank you to MysteryMadchen for asking me about when this story is supposed to be set. While I was responding to her review, I realized that I'd thrown the boys' ages _way_ out of wack. This story takes place between S2E15 (Tall Tales) and S2E21 (All Hell Breaks Loose I & II), making Dean _27_, not 29. Sam is _22_, not 25 right now. I just went back and corrected the chapters that wrote them in as such.

**Writer's Note #3: **Super sorry about the uppercase words. I use a program to write that doesn't recognize italics, so I use uppercase lettering to indicate italics and change them when editing in MS Word. Sometimes a few words in caps get past me, though. Pretty sure I just fixed them all, but if you're one of the few people that navigate immediately after getting notified that a new chapter's up, you probably saw them - and disliked them just as much as I did. Serious apologies there!

**Writer's Note #4: **Thank you so so much for reading and please let me know what you thought about this chapter in the comments/reviews (what'd you think of the Lucidan/Cult thing?) if you can spare the time! Again, thank you! ~ Alex


	11. Chapter 11

_Previously..._

_"Okay," Dean said simply, done with the conversation. "You think our food's coming?"_

_Bobby, willing to take the shift in topic, shrugged and turned around to search for their waitress._

_"Ah she's coming now, actually," Bobby murmured. Bobby turned back around and saw Dean glance at his watch._

_"Sam's been gone for awhile," Dean muttered._

_"Mm, he didn't look so great when he left," Bobby commented as Dean moved to stand up._

_"I'm gonna be right back," Dean said briefly, stretching and turning away to go to the bathroom._

_Dean strolled down the aisle, his pace starting to quicken as his thoughts started cycling over where Sam was and why he was taking so long. His jaw clenching with mounting anxiety, he reached the men's room and banged the door open._

* * *

"Sam?" He called out. The room seemed empty. Dean stalked towards the stalls, opening the few half-open doors until he reached the last one. He heard a small gasp before he opened the door wide to find Sam hunched over on the seat, clutching his head.

"Sam?" Dean whispered, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of Sam. "What happened? Are you okay?" He reached out to touch Sam's shoulder and Sam jerked away, twisting to the side. Dean moved his hand back, not sure what to do.

"Such a... fucking jerk," Sam gasped the insult at Dean as he continued to breathe heavily, his hands covering his face.

"Sam, did you have another vision?" Dean asked gently. He was surprised when he heard Sam attempt to muffle a sob.

"Yeah," he answered miserably. "I, um," Sam shuddered and heaved, "I don't... know... why..." Sam sniffed and Dean noticed the kid's hand was wet with caught tears, "... I'm upset," Sam finished. "I just have to get it... under... control," Sam cried between quick irregular breaths.

Dean watched Sam's struggle, literally cringing with empathy.

"Sam-" he tried reaching out again, hoping Sam wouldn't reject him. He touched Sam's back and Sam flinched away and hit Dean's arm.

"Seriously please leave me alone," Sam cried.

Dean stayed where he was though. He wanted to help... He needed to help. He thought of what Bobby had been trying to tell him and then something just clicked.

"Sam, c'mon," Dean said firmly, moving up from his crouch as he reached out to grab Sam.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, appalled, as Dean clasped him under his arms and started pulling him up. "Stop," Sam cried weakly, unable to combat Dean as he found himself rising. He was still reeling from the vision, trembling as he tried to push away from Dean's presence. "Pleeease," Sam's voice pitched frantically and trailed, unable to stop the waves of panic and despair crashing over him. Sam nearly crumpled back down to the seat when Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's back and fully raised him up to standing.

"Hey- Sam- Hey, c'mon Sammy..." Dean whispered, pulling Sam closer into a full hug. Sam shuddered against Dean, unable to move but unwilling to give in to the embrace.

"N-no," Sam stammered, hardly strong enough to deny Dean's hold yet still trying to maintain his grudge against him. Suddenly, Sam felt Dean jerk him so fast his head was pulled and lying on Dean's shoulder a split-second later. Dean's hand was holding it there and Sam could feel Dean's breath on his ear.

"I'm sorry, Sammy, okay?" Dean whispered, his voice thick. He held Sam against him tightly, regripping him, "Now stay with me right now, okay?"

At the sound of Dean's kindness; the love in his tone, Sam's grudge crumbled to dust in the wake of having found someone that would hold him together through this.

Sam started to melt, sobbing in Dean's embrace, when the scene in his vision flashed before his eyes again. A patient in a hospital room. Doctors and nurses calling to each other as they worked and hovered over the man. The sound of a defibrillator charging and a commanding voice shouting, 'clear,' several times over. The flat-line echoing in and out as everything faded to black. The monitor's prolonged beep still ringing in his head, Sam gasped as the phantom sound pushed him over the edge.

Dean suddenly felt Sam latch onto him fiercely as he heard Sam start sobbing heavily, felt him nearly collapse in agony before Dean tightened his grip to hold him steady.

"Dea-!" Sam pleaded, this time for begging for help. It felt like every part of him was tearing open, something forcing him to surrender to this hopeless emptiness that was closing in on him from all sides. Unable to take much more, Sam's knees buckled and he let go, about to slide to the floor.

"Hey-hey-hey it's okay, it's okay," Dean whispered quickly, alarmed, as he pulled and propped Sam back up. He used all his strength as he tried to be as gentle as possible with Sam's gagging body. Sam came back to him with a pained grunt.

"Sam, Sammy c'mon hold onto me now," Dean coached and felt Sam grip him as if his life depended on it. "Good, good boy," Dean whispered into Sam's ear, relieved. Dean kept Sam braced, firmly secured against him.

"I don't," Sam gasped, "un.. understand," he wept, the side of his head pressed against Dean's, his chin digging into the back of Dean's neck as the overwhelming darkness of loss washed through him yet again. He was drowning, suffocating on air and all he could do was hold on and scream prayers that it would pass.

"It's okay, Sammy, just relax," Dean ordered calmly, rubbing Sam's back. Sam's tears dripped off his cheeks onto Dean's back, hyperventilating. "Everything's okay. You're okay," Dean soothed. Dean moved his hand up further and placed it on the back of Sam's neck, then his head. Sam turned into Dean closer, terrified and disoriented and seeking contact. Dean carded his fingers through the kid's hair as he started to sway slightly. Dean breathed a loud sigh which sounded suspiciously like a hushing noise. He dragged the sound out and let it taper off into silence. He felt Sam give another emotional spasm and wheeze weak, miserable sobs. Sam's fingers tensed and scraped against Dean's back in frustration, trying to fight against the unwanted and unfounded emotions that were beating him senseless.

"I know, I know," Dean massaged Sam's head, "It'll be over soon. It's okay, Sam," Dean promised, desperately hoping he was right. Dean closed his eyes in a personal prayer of his own.

"I gotchya," he barely whispered, but Sam heard. "It's gonna be okay. I'm right here," Dean promised, his voice strained and rough with sincerity. Dean hugged Sam close again, rubbing his back and continuing to whisper reassurances to the trembling kid in his arms.

Sam started to feel the crashes of turmoil lessening in intensity, his tremors subsiding; his sobs calming into soft gasps that were starting to sound like a regular rhythm. An unerring sense of certainty streaked through him as Dean's presence started breaking him into awareness: things were okay. They were safe.

Dean sighed again with relief as he noticed Sam's breathing start to level out. Sam's chest was expanding and contracting against him with a regularity that he hadn't seen or felt since he'd spotted him in the stall.

"Good, Sam, just relax," he encouraged as he felt Sam calm down. He slowed rubbing Sam's back and just closed his eyes, taking his own advice. "Everything's okay."

Sam was silent for awhile then, and Dean felt his brother shivering - could tell that Sam was trying hard to get his composure back. Scared and worried, Sam kept his arms around Dean not out of desperation or pain anymore but rather just because he still needed Dean's stabilizing presence. Dean thought of Bobby's words again. Sam needed him. Dean took a breath and spoke up.

"Sam, you know we're gonna figure this out. We're in this together."

Dean felt Sam huff and nod against his head.

"Right so. We'll take care of it," Dean whispered simply and hugged his brother. Sam nodded vaguely, returning the small pressure. Dean waited patiently for Sam to disconnect.

Eventually, he felt Sam move his hand from Dean's back to wipe his face off. Dean's eyebrows raised with expectation, but he didn't move away; he still waited for Sam. Gingerly, Sam started to release from the embrace, flush with embarrassment. He couldn't even bring himself to look at his older brother, instead fixing his eyes down at the floor, feeling fidgety. Dean folded his arms, relaxed but worried, his eyes on Sam.

"Was this a panic attack?" Dean asked without judgment, concerned. Sam shook his head and turned, ducking down to the side of the stall to grab toilet paper.

"No," he sniffed, "I don't think so," he said, blinking away the last remnants of tears and blew his nose. Dean watched his little brother, brows furrowed in thought.

"Were you remembering something? - The vision?"

Sam squinted and leaned against the stall, tired. Dean had to admit his little brother looked like a wreck. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was red; his eyes seemed sunken and dark. Sam cringed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I just... came in here to splash water on my face and the vision came to me. I don't have any idea what I was watching. It was just some guy flat-lining in a hospital, but..." Sam trailed off and gestured to Dean that he knew the rest of the story. Dean nodded in thought and started chewing his lip, absently looking at the ground while Sam finished clearing his face and regaining full composure. He coughed a couple times.

"Thank you," Sam whispered delicately. The bathroom's acoustics magnified the sound and Dean flinched to look directly at Sam. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, realizing that Sam was ashamed.

"Don't thank me," Dean replied easily, "We're brothers, right?"

Sam gave a small, timid smile and looked down, nodding.

"Right," he murmured, realizing Dean was.

Just at that moment, the door to the bathroom shoved open. Dean, still only halfway inside the stall, turned to look at who it was.

"You boys hangin' out in the bathroom for no reason?" Bobby asked comically. But one look at Bobby told Dean that the man was just compensating: Bobby was obviously concerned that they'd been gone for so long. Dean turned back to look at Sam, who was giving him a blank, exhausted stare. Dean reached for his brother.

"C'mon," he murmured, backing away to let Sam come out.

"Let's get our food to go. Bobby where you staying?" He asked, approaching the exit where Bobby was standing.

"Couple miles down," Bobby's eyes went straight to Sam as he saw the kid shamble out to the sink area and splash his face with water. Bobby looked back up to Dean, tacitly communicating his question: what the hell was going on?

Dean ignored it for the time being.

"We're at the Chamberlin Motel. 'Bout ten minutes away. You want to follow us and pick up our conversation back there?" Dean suggested. Bobby looked between the boys and eventually nodded.

"Sure, Dean," he said gently, then cocked his head over to Sam, catching the kid's eye as he walked over and stopped just short of his big brother.

"You okay, Sam?" Bobby asked genuinely.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good," Sam replied breathlessly, trying hard to sound all right. Bobby looked from Sam to Dean and back again. He seemed to come to a conclusion and gave a slight nod.

"Okay c'mon." Bobby turned around to leave the bathroom. Dean twisted to look at Sam, indicating for Sam to go ahead and follow Bobby. Hunched down and worn-out, Sam passed Dean. As he started following Bobby out of the bathroom, he felt Dean's hand pat him on the back and linger for a beat, silently conveying his support; reminding him that he was right behind him.

They approached the hostess's station and Bobby spoke up.

"Why don' you two get back to the motel. I'll swing around after I got the food," Bobby suggested casually. Again, Dean registered Bobby's expression. Perceptive to a fault, this guy. Dean didn't understand how they were communicating on the same wavelength, but it was clear Bobby knew exactly how to help Dean at the moment.

"Sounds good," Dean replied immediately, giving Bobby an appreciative nod as he reached to grab Sam's sides. Without missing a step, Sam just let Dean angle him through the front doors and out to the parking lot.

Dean put Sam in the passenger seat, took a quick jog to the driver's side, and started the car up. He glanced over at Sam as he pulled out of the lot. The kid was rubbing his temples, eyes closed.

"You doing okay?"

"Are we gonna tell Bobby about this?" Sam asked back.

"Yeah," Dean blurted, then gave his brother a double-take when he saw his expression, "No?"

Sam bit his lip nervously, his thoughts taking him dark places.

"Not if you don't want to, Sam," Dean offered, hoping to get Sam to relax. He looked at his little brother again. "_Sam_," he called, snapping Sam out of it. "We won't tell him anything if you don't want, okay? Don't... worry," Dean trailed off. "Okay?"

"Okay," Sam replied, his voice small.

They arrived at the motel shortly soon after. Dean opened the door and Sam followed, dropping himself face down onto the closest bed - Dean's - and brought his arms up to cover his eyes.

Dean gave a small smile at the sight, pleased that Sam was taking it easy, and walked into the kitchen to grab the bottle of Tylenol in case Sam would want them. He came back in and set the meds on the nightstand, noticing Sam's feet at the same time.

"Take off your shoes," Dean requested lightly. Sam didn't say anything; just started footing his shoes off and let them fall to the floor before putting them back onto the mattress. Just as Dean was about to turn and seat himself at the small table nearby, he heard Sam's muffled voice.

"What?" Dean asked, stopping to look at Sam's prone figure on the bed. His face was mashed against the pillow. Sam turned his head to face Dean.

"What'd you and Bobby talk about when I was gone?" Sam repeated tiredly. Dean could still see that Sam was still interested though, so he shrugged and let out a sigh as he sat down on Sam's bed.

"Not a lot, to be honest. Not anything that'd help us get our memories back," Dean replied, ever pragmatic.

"So then what did he talk about?"

"Our family," Dean dipped his head, a fleeting twinge of sadness shooting through him. "You."

Sam's eyes widened a small fraction and he blinked. He didn't say anything; he seemed to know Dean would continue without a prompt. He just calmly kept his eye contact with his big brother, waiting for more. Dean sighed again and gave a small cough.

"Our father's dead," Dean announced with a small shrug, "Recently, Bobby said," he added, his tone indicating that he didn't feel the significance. Sam's brow furrowed and he pursed his lips: he felt nothing about this news, either, and it felt... wrong.

"Said he was a good man. He was a hunter. Raised us to be hunters," Dean said, long pauses between each clipped sentence. Sam nodded, indicating he was registering what Dean was saying.

"So... it was our dad that probably taught me to memorize the exorcisms..." Sam said softly. Dean tilted his head to the side, nodding his head in acknowledgment of what Sam was doing. If they couldn't feel anything for this man, their father, dying, the least they could do was credit him for saving their lives by having taught Sam the exorcism he had used the other night.

"What else?" Sam asked, the moment over. Dean looked up and shrugged, feeling like he was under a microscope now because he really didn't want to divulge the rest of what Bobby had said. It was too... personal. He knew how he felt - and Bobby had helped him understand and justify why his instincts flared up whenever something was wrong or threatening Sam. But he didn't need Sam to know that. He didn't want Sam to know.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, confused, "You said he talked about me?"

Dean licked his lips and nodded.

"Yeah. Well, he was just talking about how we were raised, really," Dean tried to sidestep.

"And how was that?" Sam pushed, genuinely interested. Dean warred with himself over whether to tell the truth or really more like how to avoid saying exactly what Bobby had said.

"Just that... we were left alone a lot so our father could go hunting."

"So we grew up in like... motel rooms?" Sam asked, a hint of disgust in his tone. Dean smirked.

"Yeah princess, that's the impression I got."

"Huh," Sam said breezily, thinking on it. "So it was just, like, you and I-?" Sam ventured, "-while we were growing up?"

Dean bit his bottom lip and squinted at Sam, knowing he was going to catch on soon. He nodded.

"Yeah I think so," he murmured, staring at Sam uncertainly. Sam's eyes moved off to the side, analyzing and incorporating their background into the framework they'd already built from the past two-three days of knowing each other.

"That explains a lot," he finally whispered at the floor, then looked up meaningfully at his brother. Dean pursed his lips and shrugged again, knowing Sam had made the connection. It was embarrassing but still kind of nice - that he could feel so responsible and so, for lack of a better term, _loving_.

"I trust you too much," Sam murmured. Dean jerked his head back to look at Sam in surprise. He saw the playful glint in Sam's eyes though, paired with a wry smile on his lips and Dean grinned.

"Yeah well. I'm too nice to _you_," Dean shot back. Sam chuckled and blinked a few times, turning over onto his back as he did so.

"Where's Bobby? I'm hungry," he said casually, rubbing his eyes. Dean smiled, delighted to hear Sam was feeling good enough to eat.

"I don't know. Said he was coming soon."

Sam nodded, looking off in the direction of the window.

"I think we should tell Bobby about the visions," Sam said.

"Really? You sure?"

Sam stretched his arms as he turned back to look at Dean. He finished with a shrug.

"Yeah. He seems to know about this stuff-"

"Yeah but... do you trust him?" Dean asked tentatively. He was all for telling Bobby; Dean felt like the guy was reliable. He knew it was likely because Bobby had been so good with Sam and so reverent towards Dean's role of taking care of him after the...incident... but he needed Sam to feel the same way about the guy if they were going to share this thing.

Sam shrugged.

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

"Then that's good enough for me. I just want answers. Bobby seems like he's got them," Sam said, revealing his own practical mind.

"Okay," he replied simply, not interested in challenging the decision. "What'd you think of the Lucidan thing?"

Sam gave an exasperated sigh.

"Fucking... crazy is what I thought," Sam laughed, shaking his head with disbelief. Dean gave a huff and rolled his eyes. "But I still believed it, unfortunately," Sam finished solemnly.

"Yeah me too," Dean agreed quietly. The silence stayed on as the two of them thought about the 'Lucidan monster.'

"What do you think it'll be like when we get our memories back?" Sam blurted. Dean looked up, flashing a brief mirror of Sam's anxiety before breaking into a kind smile. He took a second to figure out his answer, but finally gave in with a sigh.

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean assured him softly and winked. Sam returned the smile and nodded.

Knocks on the door made the brothers jerk and look up.

"Should be him," Dean murmured as he stood up and walked over. He checked the eye hole before unlocking and opening the door. Sam straightened on the bed, feeling better and inwardly looking forward to food. The dish Bobby had ordered for him had actually sounded pretty good.

"Delivery," Bobby deadpanned as he walked in holding the bag up. He set it on the table, allowing Dean to pull out the contents, as he looked around. He nodded his head.

"It's cleaner than you guys normally are," he commented. Sam and Dean stopped and looked up, not sure what to take from that. Bobby swiveled around to Dean.

"D'you unpack yet?"

"What? ... No," Dean answered guardedly.

"Ah that's it, then," Bobby waved his hand and took a seat at the small table as Sam grunted with laughter. Dean turned to look at Sam, snapped and pointed at him.

"You, shut up," Dean said, not really serious. Sam, still chuckling, held up his palms.

"I didn't say anything," Sam claimed.

"Sam, your habits are just as bad," Bobby teased, for the first time kind of enjoying the interaction between the boys. It reminded him of when they were kids...

Dean had opened Sam's boxed breakfast. He grabbed a knife and fork and stepped over to serve his little brother.

"Normally I wouldn't let you eat on my bed, y'know," Dean grumbled, handing Sam his food as Sam sat up and crossed his legs. He gave a brief dimpled smile in recognition of Dean's words, then shifted back to Bobby.

"Bobby - my habits are bad? What are they?" Sam asked, curious. Bobby raised his eyebrows, at first surprised. But then, it made sense: Sam didn't know himself. He glanced over and realized Dean seemed intent on hearing his answer too.

"You, uh... you always leave... You know what? Really?" Bobby asked, unsure. "You want to do this? Shouldn't we just figure out how to kill the Lucidan? - Just work on getting your memories back?" Bobby asked, bothered that he was being asked to dish the boys _their own_ dirt.

Sam and Dean blinked and shrugged, waiting on Bobby to decide which route to go. Bobby licked his lips, wondering whether to humor them. Finally, he let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Um, okay. I'll do the best I can from what I know about you two... You really want to know what your worst habits are, Sam?"

"Yeah what do I always leave...?" Sam trailed off, looking at Bobby.

"You leave the lights on everywhere," Bobby shrugged. Sam, surprised, was about to ask why when Bobby spoke up again, "You fall asleep reading, s'why."

"Okay that's not interesting," Dean ruled, "There are much more important things to know." Dean turned to Sam, silently messaging him to stand down. Sam tilted his head and nodded, acknowledging it was Dean's turn.

"Okay. Shoot," Bobby offered, game for the Q & A, now.

"Okay," Dean said heavily, suddenly serious, "Who owns the Impala?"

At that, Bobby's eyes crinkled with laughter.

"Ah, yeah Dean. She's yours," Bobby confirmed. Dean smiled with satisfaction.

"Good."

Sam figured his turn again and piped up.

"What happened to our mother?"

* * *

_**Writer's Note:** Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought if you can spare a minute! ~ Alex_


	12. Chapter 12

**Writer's Note**: Aaaand we're back!

* * *

_Previously..._

_"Okay. Shoot," Bobby offered, game for the Q & A, now._

_ "Okay," Dean said heavily, suddenly serious, "Who owns the Impala?"_

_ At that, Bobby's eyes crinkled with laughter._

_ "Ah, yeah Dean. She's yours," Bobby confirmed. Dean smiled with satisfaction._

_ "Good."_

_ Sam figured his turn again and piped up._

_ "What happened to our mother?"_

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 12**

* * *

Bobby cringed at the question, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Dean raised an eyebrow as Sam leaned forward.

"She... she passed awhile back," Bobby replied softly. Sam, taking his cues off Bobby, looked appropriately forlorn but Dean just folded his arms and shrugged.

"How?" He asked lightly, making it clear that the news wasn't devastating him. Bobby looked between the two of them and sighed, realizing any sentiment about Mary's death was lost.

"She was murdered. By a demon," he added, eyeing them, communicating a hint.

"When?" Dean questioned again seriously.

"Sam was a baby - 'bout six months old."

At that Sam's eyebrows lifted and he straightened up at the realization.

"Ah, so that's how... That's how our father got into hunting," Sam concluded perceptively. Bobby nodded wearily.

"Yep. That was the beginning of it."

Unaffected, Dean bent down and took a bite from his skillet.

"So," he chewed, "what, he just... found out about demons and decided to raise his kids in motel rooms... Left 'em alone so he could go hunt shit?" He asked disdainfully, bluntly unimpressed.

Bobby swiveled around, shocked.

"What?" Bobby said, his tone severe.

Dean blinked in surprise at Bobby's expression.

"I... I'm just sayin'..." He stumbled over his words, looking to Sam for help. Sam shrugged, not understanding Bobby's reaction, so Dean turned back to Bobby. "Just sayin', Bobby, the guy doesn't really sound like an all-star to me..." He trailed off, stopping as Bobby shifted in his seat, clearly agitated. Bobby squinted his eyes at Dean and tilted his head to the side.

"Why do you say that, Dean?" He asked, his voice having turned incredibly gentle. Dean suddenly felt like he was under the microscope... Like whatever he'd say next would be deeply profound to Bobby or something. He made an effort to sound as _not-_profound as possible.

"Well, look," he started, leaning back and opening his palm to Bobby, "you've got this wholesome nuclear starter family, right? I mean - Sam and I saw the picture in John's journal," Dean cited, looking to Sam. Sam nodded in agreement: they'd looked like the typical American Dream. "Then Mary gets murdered by a demon which, okay, sucks, but then you decide to uproot your kids and just travel everywhere in a '67 Impala fighting monsters? Like, that's... that was his livelihood?"

Bobby's eyes were wide by now, unable to fully grasp that John's most loyal, dedicated-to-the-cause son was flatly judging his choices right now. Bobby also realized how conflicted he was about defending the boys' father: Dean's points were not new to Bobby. They were new to _Dean_, though.

"Wait a minute," Dean spoke up again, pointing at Bobby accusingly, "you said I hustled pool for money."

"...yeah-?" Bobby grunted.

"So... So is that how John made money, too?" Dean asked, his annoyance mounting. "He didn't even get _paid_ for hunting monsters, did he?" Dean glared at Bobby whose expression told Dean all he needed to know. Dean shook his head with disgust. "Jesus," he whispered dramatically, his eyes catching Sam's thoughtful pose. At the reminder of Sam's presence, it lit up another thought in Dean's head. "...And he went into this whole thing when Sam was like... an infant?" He clarified.

Bobby nodded stoically, unwilling to say anything pro or con John Winchester just then. This was shaky ground.

"Yeah," Bobby replied cautiously.

"And he was gone most of the time, he made money from hustling pool... We grew up pretty poor, didn't we?" Dean pressed.

Bobby winced and bobbed his head.

"Eh, kinda poor, yeah..."

"That's... that's just... _shitty_," Dean stated. He took another bite of his skillet. Bobby blinked at Dean. Sam leaned back against the head post of the bed and sighed.

"Dean you could lighten up on the guy - he's dead, y'know?"

"Yeah whatever," Dean muttered back, his mouth full.

"You don't even have memories of any of it," Sam countered dully.

"That's right. You don't," Bobby piped up just then. Enough was enough. "Your father loved you - both of you," he said, his voice strong and full of conviction. "I'm no therapist, but your father adored his family - would have given _anything_ for you two. And he didn't just _hunt things_, Dean," Bobby shot Dean a nasty look, to which Dean raised his brows, "He _saved_ people's lives after Mary. He raised you two the way he did so you could protect yourselves and maybe... just _maybe_... save some lives too."

Dean huffed, his skepticism over Bobby's little diatribe making itself known, and took another bite of his skillet.

"Plus, we couldn't have been _that_ poor. I went to Stanford, didn't I?" Sam ventured searchingly. He looked to Bobby for the answer.

"No, Sam, you got a scholarship to Stanford - full ride."

Sam was taken aback by this news but Dean was the first to speak up.

"Whoa really? That's pretty awesome."

"Uh huh," Bobby murmured noncommittally. He stared at Dean as he came to realize a few things. The first being that Dean's judgments were razor sharp and that without the element of compassion there was no room in his head for extenuating circumstances or a willingness to give the benefit of the doubt. The second, most significant realization, was that if Dean had always truly held this objective opinion of the 'family business,' he _must_ have, either consciously or unconsciously, laid the groundwork for Sam to break out of it.

The friction between Sam and John had started when Sam hit adolescence, Bobby knew. He knew about the fights, the challenges, the constant rebellions that Sam would throw at John. What he _hadn't_ known - until now, that is - was that _Dean_, at his very core, advocated for the way of life Sam grew up wanting. The way of life that typified the first four of his own.

It dawned on Bobby that Dean may even have been the reason _why_ Sam grew up thinking he wanted that way of life.

Dean's imperative was to protect Sam and keep him safe. Sam's was to break out of hunting.

In all truth, their desires were compatible. And as much as Dean had missed his little brother when he'd left, Bobby realized that Dean must have been the element in Sam's childhood & adolescence that had allowed for the kid to believe that he was entitled to a normal, happy, _safe_ life...because it certainly hadn't been John.

Bobby sighed, heavy-hearted. Dean's next question only anchored it down further.

"What about me? Any educational merits on my end?"

Bobby tried to smile.

"You gotchyer G.E.D.," Bobby offered bluntly. Dean grimaced and took a bite of his skillet, effectively hiding his disappointment.

"What, did I smoke pot a lot or something?" He asked finally, making Sam laugh dryly into his food. Bobby looked into Dean's eyes and held him there.

"No, Dean. Your head wasn't in school... You hunted with your father," Bobby said genuinely, trying so hard to get Dean to understand. "You saved a lot of lives, starting with your brother's."

"Hm?" Sam hummed openly, curious. "When'd he save my life?"

Bobby smiled and turned to look at Sam, one eyebrow raised.

"Which time?" He asked, cocky. Sam blinked and swallowed the food he'd been chewing. He glanced at Dean, wondering if Dean was as put-off as he was. Dean indeed looked equally as disturbed. Sam turned back to Bobby.

"Uh, I don't know. The first... time... he saved my life?" Sam said, uncertain. He was only twenty-two. How many life-or-death situations are you even supposed to have at his age?

Bobby licked his lips and bent his head in thought.

"Well," he drew the word out, "The _first_ time was when you were six months old, Sam. Dean pulled you out of a burning building."

Bobby didn't get the reaction he wanted out of Sam. Instead of instigating a nice moment - maybe a silent exchange of understanding - between the brothers, Sam's jaw clenched and his eyes widened right before he shot his next question to Bobby.

"A house fire?"

"...yeah," Bobby's brow furrowed.

"I was six months old?"

"Yeah."

"Was that the... Did our mother die in that fire?"

Bobby softened. Sam's mind was sharp - he'd connected the dots _fast_.

"Yeah," Bobby said, and Sam, alarmed, looked to Dean just as Dean realized the same thing and shifted forward in his seat. Oblivious, Bobby kept going, "Yeah, Sam, that's-"

"Was- sorry," Sam apologized for interrupting, "but was... did she die on the ceiling?" He asked, inwardly praying that Bobby would look at him like he was crazy at the notion.

At first, that's the expression Sam thought he was getting from Bobby. Until Bobby replied.

"How... do you even remember that, Sam?" Bobby asked wonderingly.

"_Fuck_," Dean blurted. Bobby whipped to look at Dean, then back to Sam.

"I... I don't. I don't remember it. I... I _saw_ it," Sam stuttered.

This time Bobby's eyes widened as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Come again?"

"I had like a..." Sam closed his mouth, unsure of what to call it, and looked to Dean.

"He has migraine... visions," Dean informed, tacking on the supernatural element to the end for added effect. Bobby lost no time on it.

"_Visions_?" He prompted, looking to Sam. Sam nodded, not fully aware of why he was embarrassed, but feeling so nonetheless.

"Yeah, I saw... I saw it, I think. It was a mother in a nursery - her stomach was slashed on the ceiling before she burst into flames. And there was another woman too - more my age - that I saw..."

"_Shit_," Bobby grunted, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face.

"What?" Sam asked, worried. He glanced at Dean who looked just as tense as he did.

"Sam if that was our mother you saw dying, it'd explain your reactions coming out of them," Dean murmured at the table. He looked back up at his brother. Sam nodded, mute. A few moments of silence passed as the two of them waited on Bobby.

"Bobby-?" Sam finally prompted. Bobby flinched and looked back to Sam, his expression sorrowful.

"The girl... the second girl you saw on the ceiling. Was she pretty? Long blonde hair?"

Ordinarily Dean would have made a joke right about then, but the atmosphere was charged and Sam nodded lightly in response. Bobby's eyes softened and he tilted his head to the side.

"That was your girlfriend, Sam. You loved her very much. Her name was Jessica Moore," he said mournfully. Sam pursed his lips, nodded, and looked down at his food. He wasn't hungry anymore. Bobby sighed. "The Lucidan must not have been able to absorb those memories," Bobby murmured, "Guess I can't blame the thing..."

Dean was squinting in thought throughout this whole thing, wondering a question that hadn't been asked yet and hoping he wasn't cracking Sam wide open by bringing it up. He couldn't quell his curiosity on it though.

"Um..." he started, "So... that was _one_ vision of Sam's and... don't get me wrong, his reaction to it afterwards... falls in line with... how you'd react to seeing... that stuff..." Dean said haltingly, making an effort to be vague so Sam could save face, "but... his last vision was," Dean stopped, having too much difficulty censoring himself, and turned to Sam, "dude, your last vision was worse."

Sam ticked his head to Dean, acknowledging the truth.

"Why? What was your last vision, Sam?" Bobby asked, interested. Sam drew a breath and let it out.

"Um... it was a guy flat-lining in a hospital."

Bobby blew out a breath of air and rolled his eyes, overwhelmed.

"What?" Dean asked.

"That was probably your Daddy, Sam," Bobby supplied. Sam gulped and nodded; it made sense.

"Wow, _really_?" Dean asked. Bobby looked up to the eldest Winchester, surprised, but Dean was looking at Sam. "You must've had one hell of a relationship with the guy."

Sam opened his mouth, about to claim the truth: he really had no idea _what_ their relationship had been like. Before Sam could speak, Dean's words struck a chord with Bobby.

"Wait a minute - wait a minute..." Bobby started, thinking. Dean had _been there_ when their father had died. _Both_ of them had witnessed his death. And no matter what amnesia-Dean thought about John, it was _Dean_ that had the closest relationship to him.

"Dean, you don't... You don't remember this?"

"Remember our father dying? No. Sam does," Dean replied bluntly, stating the obvious. Bobby looked at Sam, his expression pure confusion. He let out a breath and shook his head.

"This don't make a lick of sense," he murmured.

"What?" Both boys said in unison.

"Ah," Bobby started, deciding to lay it all on the line, "Okay listen. Dean," Bobby turned and pointed, "_you_ were the one with the best relationship to your father. Not Sam."

"Really?" Dean asked, genuinely perplexed. Bobby blinked, still getting over the fact that Dean wouldn't objectively side with John if John hadn't been his father.

"Really. Sam," Bobby turned and addressed the youngest, "you and your father were constantly at each other's throats. You were _estranged_ from your family for _years_ because you went to Stanford."

"-_Because_ he went to Stanford?" Dean interrupted, unable to believe it, and admittedly offended on Sam's behalf. He looked at Sam to see if his little brother was reacting the same way but Sam seemed... fine. Just apathetically curious about the whole thing.

Bobby turned to Dean, finally getting a little pissed off at how _not-_Dean he was.

"Yeah, Dean, _because_ he went to Stanford. What the hell is going on here? Did you two switch personalities _too_?!" He yelled.

Dean slammed his fist on the table and leaned forward to retaliate.

"What the _hell_ are you _talking_ about, man?!"

"I'm talking about _you_, Dean! What _is_ this bullshit you're spewing about your father? Why can't you see the value in what he did?! And where the fuck is your _loyalty_?!"

"My _loyalty_ is lost along with the _rest_ of my memories!" Dean spat, "Jesus _Christ_, Bobby, I've only just met my _brother_ like _two days_ ago!"

"Guys-" Sam undertoned.

"That's not an excuse! Dean-"

"I'm sorry. Full-on _memory loss_ isn't an excuse?!"

"-Guys-"

"NO! Your whole damn life you've been hunting things and saving lives and _now_ I'm finding out that all this time, _all this time,_ you've wanted what _SAM WANTS_?!" Bobby yelled back, absolutely furious, his face turning a slight shade of red.

At that, Dean was thrown off-center. He glared at Bobby, but Bobby knew the boy too well. He'd just slapped Dean hard. He saw the uncertainty and fear in the eldest's eyes as the implications of what Bobby had just said sunk in.

Had Dean been living a lie his whole life? With a clean slate, would Dean objectively condemn the life he'd been living when he'd _had_ memories?

"Um..." Sam broke the moment evenly, "guys, we've gotten off track," he whispered. A few more beats of silence with Dean and Bobby staring each other down and Sam coughed, then spoke up again.

"Bobby... you were going somewhere... talking about our relationships to our father-?" He prompted. Bobby broke eye contact with Dean and settled down, trying to remember his train of thought.

"Yeah. What I was gettin' at was that it wouldn't make sense that you, Sam, would be the only one to remember your daddy's death... If the Lucidan couldn't absorb the memory from you, it sure as hell shouldn't have been able to absorb it from Dean."

Sam shook his head.

"So what does that mean?"

Bobby sighed.

"I don't know," he replied tiredly. He didn't look back at Dean. He didn't want to look at him.

"Maybe it's not the Lucidan," Dean murmured. Bobby lifted his eyebrows as he stared at the floor, acknowledging the possibility.

"Sam, was there anything else in your visions? Anything to indicate that the memories weren't gettin' brought on by themselves?"

Sam shook his head, then abruptly stopped, thinking of the first vision.

"Sam?"

"Ah," Sam looked at Dean, "Yeah actually..." he trailed off. Bobby and Dean, both resolutely ignoring each other, still managed to have the same expectant expression on their faces as they stared at the youngest. Sam shifted on the bed and looked to Dean. "Dean, I told you about it," he offered, then turned to Bobby, "there was a figure in the nursery - I couldn't make out what he looked like or anything but I saw he had yellow eyes and - what?" Sam interrupted himself, seeing Bobby's eyes widen.

"Nothin' keep goin'," Bobby urged.

"Okay so he just... looked directly at me and told me to remember who I was before everything went to hell," Sam finished.

Bobby's mouth opened slightly as he held a dumb expression.

"Holy hell," he said, snapping out of it.

"What?" Dean grunted, reluctantly intrigued by the man's reaction. Bobby, having lost the animosity he'd felt towards Dean earlier in the wake of this revelation, turned to look at Dean.

"That demon - the yellow-eyed demon - is the one your daddy was trackin' ever since it killed your mother," he explained. "One powerful son of bitch too. High-level demon."

Sam was rubbing his eyes, stressed, but stopped when he heard Bobby's last words.

"There are levels of demons?"

"Yeah. Demons that have more power 'n the others. Difficult to contain; difficult to kill... or, you know, exorcise," Bobby waved his hand like it was the same.

"So... the demon I exorcised in the motel room-?"

"Low-level demon. Had to be. Else you two'd be dead as door nails 'bout now," Bobby replied gruffly.

The room fell silent, everyone taking a corner to think. Nobody was eating anymore; the air was too heavy, atmosphere too tense. They'd covered a lot of ground and made a lot of connections. It was time for a breather but Dean persisted.

"So..." Dean started slowly, "there's a Lucidan thing that stole our memories. And a... high class demon trying to get Sam to remember?"

Bobby nodded.

"Not just any high-class demon. One you boys got a history with."

"Can a demon like that kill a Lucidan?" Dean asked. Bobby shrugged.

"Maybe. I don't know."

"If it can, maybe we can find a way to put 'em in the same room together? Duke it out so Sam can get his memories back?" Dean followed through on the working theory he'd come up with.

Bobby looked at Dean, appraising him. Not because of his theory; the theory was a good one but it needed research to back it up. No, Bobby was more interested in the fact that Dean hadn't included himself in the plan: 'Duke it out so _Sam_ can get his memories back.' Nor had it been lost on Bobby that Dean had referred to his childhood as though it was someone _else's_ childhood. He came down hard on John _in theory_, but he was already putting _Sam's_ loss of memory down as the priority before his own. And, like Dean had pointed out before, he'd only known Sam for about two days.

Bobby had gotten it wrong. Dean was still Dean... Dean may even be _more_ Dean now than he ever was before. He had never blindly followed, never obeyed out of duty, and he had never lost his compass for what constituted a normal, healthy, successful life. That latter point explained his judgment of John: with no emotional pull, Dean defaulted to that compass and cut the man to pieces without blinking an eye.

But that one line... That _one_ line: 'Duke it out so _Sam_ can get his memories back,' held the underlying piece of the puzzle that Bobby had needed to hear.

Dean could tear John to shreds to Bobby all he wanted now. Bobby was safe in the knowledge that Dean wouldn't have changed a damn thing about his life.

"-'re you smiling at me like that for?"

Bobby only caught the tail end of Dean's question and snapped out of it. Dean was looking at him like he'd just grown a second head.

"Bobby?" Sam queried, leaning forward on the bed.

"Yeah - sorry," Bobby blinked and gathered his thoughts, "Okay rest up. I'm gonna do some digging. You boys lay low until I give you a call in the morning, all right?"

Bobby got garbled affirmatives from both of them as he stood. They sounded almost relieved that he was leaving and, to be honest, he was feeling the air lift himself as he opened the door to the motel room. He stopped for a second, looking at the two of them. Dean, perched on the edge of his seat, knuckles nearly white as they grasped the edge of the table. Sam, pale and exhausted, lying on Dean's bed with the omelette box open and half-eaten on the other side. Bobby quirked a smile, nodded to Dean who nodded back, and closed the door behind him.

When the lock snicked close, Dean let out a quiet groan as he leaned forward and rubbed his face and eyes. Sam watched his brother and inwardly acknowledged that he felt the same way. He stretched his legs on the bed and lowered himself down onto the pillow to stare up at the ceiling.

"That guy..."

"He was really intense," Sam confided.

"Yeah," Dean chuffed, sounding like he was out of breath. Sam blinked at the plasterboard squares above him and shook his head.

"I seriously don't even want to think right now," Sam murmured, overwhelmed. He heard Dean get up and sensed him coming over to the bed.

"You gonna finish this?" Dean asked, sorely approaching the foot of the bed and reaching for Sam's unfinished omelette as he sat down. Sam glanced over as the bed shook while Dean settled on it.

"Knock yourself out," Sam said dryly. They sat in relative silence, Dean's chewing and swallowing noises punctuating the quiet. Sam started thinking about Dean's dish.

"Did you finish the skillet?"

Dean swallowed his bite before answering.

"No - you want some?"

Sam coughed lightly and moved to sit up again. Dean unfolded his legs and stepped on the floor for a second, reaching out to grab his box from the table.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam said wearily, taking the box Dean handed to him. Dean's used plastic flatware was inside the box and Sam looked up at Dean.

"You're using my fork," Sam mentioned, not really caring. Dean looked up at Sam, then down at the box. He nodded to the fork inside.

"Use that one."

"Okay," Sam murmured. He was definitely too tired to care. The two of them ate in comfortable silence for awhile before Dean spoke up.

"You know," he said and Sam looked up. Dean still picked at the omelette, avoiding Sam's gaze. "When all this is over - we get our memories back, you know?"

Dean glanced up and Sam nodded his understanding. Dean turned back to his food.

"You should go back to Stanford."

Sam tilted his head in consideration.

"How do we know I didn't graduate already?"

"Oh," Dean responded immediately, his mouth full, "yeah I didn't think of that," he said, pointing his fork at Sam. He swallowed his bite and shrugged, "You might've," he acknowledged willingly, "but something tells me you didn't if you're slummin' it in motel rooms with your GED-educated big brother."

"Dean, do we have to have a talk about how education doesn't equal intelligence?" Sam snarked, his grin getting wider at Dean's eye-roll and laugh. The joke had its moment and passed by easily. Dean picked up on his thread of thought and continued.

"No, but really..." Dean trailed off, taking another bite and idly looking around the motel room. "I'd stick with you. We could... I don't know... _get jobs_... get an apartment. You finish undergrad and get into law school..."

"Mm hm," Sam murmured, still eating too. "What would you do?" He asked, innocently curious. Dean shrugged.

"I dunno. Must be something I'm good at..." He murmured. "I like cars. Could probably get a job as a mechanic."

"You're good at guns too," Sam contributed. Dean nodded cheerfully.

"Yeah but we haven't tested out how good my shot is yet."

"Mm yeah, we should do that."

"Yeah."

* * *

**Writer's Note:** This chapter is, in my head, "the chapter where Sam and Dean find out shit." Eloquent, I know. Please please comment or review if you can spare the time! Thank you so much for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

_Previously..._

_ "No, but really..." Dean trailed off, taking another bite and idly looking around the motel room. "I'd stick with you. We could... I don't know... get jobs... get an apartment. You finish undergrad and get into law school..."_

_ "Mm hm," Sam murmured, still eating too. "What would you do?" He asked, innocently curious. Dean shrugged._

_ "I dunno. Must be something I'm good at..." He trailed off. "I like cars. Could probably get a job as a mechanic."_

_ "You're good at guns too," Sam contributed. Dean nodded cheerfully._

_ "Yeah but we haven't tested out how good my shot is yet."_

_ "Mm yeah, we should do that."_

_ "Yeah."_

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 13**

* * *

Dean glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand. He shrugged and looked at Sam.

"It's like noon right now. We have the whole day."

Sam swallowed his food.

"You want to go shooting?"

Dean nodded absently.

"Yeah what else're we gonna do?" He asked. "I mean, unless you're not feeling up to it. You can take a nap or something if you want," he offered but Sam was already shaking his head.

"No, no - I'm fine. Let's do it," he said lightly, folding the breakfast box closed and getting up to throw it away. He turned to find his brother cautiously smiling at him. Sam returned with a grin of his own.

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure, let's go," he replied easily, walking over to grab the keys off the table counter. Dean sprung up from the bed and moved to put his jacket on.

"We gotta pick up beer along the way so there's something to shoot at," he murmured, reaching out for the keys Sam had in his hand. Sam hesitated, then pulled back a little bit.

"Can I drive?" He asked tentatively. Dean raised his eyebrows then gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine," he agreed and felt a small streak of satisfaction when Sam smiled and turned to go outside. Dean vaguely wondered if he'd taught his brother how to drive as he followed him. _Probably_, Dean answered himself, _probably with the same car too_.

Dean opened the passenger side door and settled in next to Sam just as he started the engine.

"Hey," Dean turned to look at Sam, "what if you get another vision while you're driving?"

Sam grimaced as he shifted the car and pulled out of the spot.

"I get enough warning - if I start getting a head ache, I'll just pull over to the shoulder," he replied darkly. Dean nodded his approval as they pulled out of the lot. Sam sighed.

"What?" Dean asked, noticing Sam's pinched expression.

"Just... the visions..."

"What about them?"

Sam made a face and shook his head.

"I've seen our mom, our dad and my girlfriend die now..." Sam said sadly. Dean watched his brother, concerned.

"...yeah?" Dean prompted carefully. Sam lifted his eyebrows and glanced at Dean.

"I don't know. Just makes me wonder, like... What the next vision will be if I get one," he explained. "Like... what next, you know? I mean, I'm getting the impression that we lead really... _grim_... lives."

Dean bit his lip and nodded, thinking.

Sam turned into a convenience store parking lot and maneuvered into an open space. They sat in silence for a second until Dean opened his door.

"C'mon," he said as he stepped out. Sam sighed and followed suit.

The door's bell jingled as Dean entered first and glanced at the young teen manning the register. The kid was reading through a magazine when he gave them a double take.

"Hey guys, what's up?" he asked casually, giving them a cheerful smile. The brothers turned, surprised, then covered their expressions.

"Um. Not much. How're you?" Dean asked, sidling up to the counter. The kid closed his magazine to give them his undivided attention.

"Good, yeah - d'you guys find the place before it went down?"

Dean turned to Sam for help. Sam shrugged, obviously just as confused as Dean, but took the lead anyway.

"What do you mean?" He asked, curious.

"Ah, the Vestals-?" The kid supplied, giving them an equally baffled look. "You... don't... remember asking me about it?"

Sam and Dean cringed and shrugged.

"Sorry, man. How long ago did we talk to you about it?"

"Um, like last week, man," he said with attitude. There was a brief awkward moment of silence until Sam spoke up.

"We have... We have really terrible memories," Sam said apologetically.

"No kidding," the kid replied, eyeing them warily. Dean coughed.

"Could you clue us in, bud?" Dean asked, pulling out an authoritative tone with which to put the kid back in his place.

"Ah, sure," the kid trailed off, looking between the two of them. "So you guys came in here asking about the Vestals and where to find them. I gave you guys directions: they're like ten miles north of here... Or at least, they _were_."

"Ah okay, so what're... what _were_ the Vestals, again?" Sam asked, trying to sound as though the kid was jogging his memory.

"Just some weirdos up on a hill," the kid replied, chuckling. He stopped when he looked at Sam and Dean's uncomprehending expressions. "They were a secret society or some shit. Survivalists or whatever, I think. But they got taken down a couple days ago."

"Taken down?" Dean queried.

"Yeah. The cops broke 'em down. It was kind of hush hush but this road is the only route up there so I saw the cop cars and everything. A few officers came in here for coffee or whatever and told me they'd disbanded the thing."

"Huh. Okay," Dean grunted, leaning on the counter and turning to Sam. "Do you know why? Like how were they breaking the law?" He asked lazily, turning back to the kid, and making an effort to sound like he was interested in the gossip.

The kid scrunched his face and shrugged.

"I dunno, man. There're rumors but I think they just got busted for having a lot of unlicensed guns or some shit."

"What're the rumors?" Sam asked. The kid lifted his eyebrows and gave a sly smile.

"Well the _rumors_ are pretty out there."

"Yeah. Okay. What were they?" Dean asked, stern. The kid gave a split-second look of annoyance before turning to speak to Sam.

"The rumors were that the Vestals were _sacrificing_... _people_," the kid said dramatically. Sam and Dean's eyes widened.

"Yeah," the kid said, "I know, right? Pretty creepy."

"That is creepy," Sam murmured, vaguely keeping his cover. "Is that why we were interested in visiting them?"

"I don't know, man. You just asked for directions - said you were researching a book on cults or some shit."

"Ah," Dean whispered, nodding to himself. He turned his back on the kid and leaned towards Sam. "This is making more and more sense," he said quietly. Sam gave a slight nod. Dean turned back to the kid and palmed the counter. "Well, thanks for filling us in. Sorry about our crappy memories, but can you give us the directions again?"

"I mean, sure. But the compound's deserted now."

"Eh, still," Sam shrugged, "We'd still like to take a look at it."

"Sure, okay," the kid replied, pulling out a pad of paper. He looked up for a second, "This'll take a minute - you guys gonna pick anything up while you're here?"

"Yeah - beer-?"

The kid nodded to the back of the store and Dean gave a thumbs up. The two of them walked alongside each other as they approached the refrigerators in the back.

"Okay so... Lucidan lucks into a modern cult," Dean ticked his index finger up, counting, "cult is evil, and then you and I came in to investigate it?" He whispered. They stopped in front of the display case and Dean looked to Sam, who was nodding along.

"Yeah. We come to investigate weird deaths, discover the evil cult... We may have even had a hand in bringing it down..."

"Lucidan loses its food supply when the cult goes down-"

"-Which was two days ago-"

"-The same time we lost our memories," Dean finished. Sam nodded seriously.

"Yeah. It had to go back to sucking individuals of memories instead of feeding off cult fervor."

"Yeah but... why us?" Dean asked, then a thought came to him, "Hey! You think we're not the only ones that got zapped by the Lucidan when the cult went down?"

Sam looked at Dean blankly, then shrugged.

"I have no idea."

"We should see if there's anyone that was part of the cult... uh... the..." Dean snapped, trying to remember.

"The Vestals," Sam supplied, quirking a smile at Dean forgetting. Dean opened the refrigerator and pulled out a six-pack.

"Yes. The Vestals," he agreed, closing the door and looking at Sam.

Sam nodded openly.

"S'a good idea," he offered. Dean nodded and started moving back towards the cashier when Sam held him back.

"You know what _I_ don't get?"

"What?"

"If it was an 'evil,'" Sam air quoted, "cult - and people really were getting _sacrificed_ - how was the Lucidan feeding off _positive_ cult fervor?"

Dean nodded in thought.

"C'mon, we'll talk about it in the car," he murmured, tilting his head for Sam to follow him back to the cashier.

The two of them made it back to the kid at the front. He'd drawn a fairly simple route and explained where the dirt road turn-off would be before ringing up the beer. They both gave their thanks and moved to leave when the kid called out to them.

"Hey guys! I told you this before but... I know it's superstitious bullshit and everything, but... like... be careful. The Vestals were kind of crazy and there might still be some of them hiding out there or whatever."

At that, Dean kind of softened at the kid.

"Thanks, man. We'll be careful. Take it easy," he offered. The kid smiled.

"You too."

The brothers left the store, Dean dropped the six-pack into the trunk, and they clambered back into the car. Dean grunted a sigh as he folded his arms in the passenger seat. Sam leaned forward and idly patted on the wheel.

"What do you want to do now?" He asked, then turned to Dean. Dean grimaced and shrugged.

"I don't know. I mean... we could check it out. Go there."

Sam shook his head.

"We should call Bobby first."

"Yeah maybe..." Dean trailed off. Silence lapsed and Sam raised his eyebrows.

"You want to hold off?"

Dean turned away and looked out the window. Bobby had rubbed him the wrong way back in the motel room and the fact that they'd just filled in a lot of blanks about what they'd been doing in Richmond had only increased his sense of unease.

"Dean-?" Sam prompted. Dean gave a sharp sigh and turned back to look at his brother.

"Bobby said something at the restaurant when you weren't there," Dean started thoughtfully. Sam's brows furrowed with confusion.

"What'd he say?"

"He said I was all you had," Dean said, his light voice belying the gravity of the statement as he stretched his arms.

"Oh... okay...?" Sam trailed off, wondering where Dean was going with this. Dean glanced at Sam and said no more. "What about you?"

"Apparently you're all I have too," Dean replied.

"So..."

"So I'm answering what you were saying before. About our lives. And about what visions you could have..." Dean said, his voice hinting regret.

"Oh," Sam said lamely, then leaned back in his seat.

Both of them tried to relax in the car and failed. In mutual silence, they mulled over the pictures painted of their lives and their implications. The miserable conditions under which they'd grown up, the dangerous, unstable nature of their current work...

The fact that, in order to get their memories back, they'd need to deal in the aftermath of a cult that may have been sacrificing human lives.

And with the significance of all these things sinking in, both of them felt vulnerable and entirely ill-equipped to handle it.

"Sam?" Dean asked quietly. Sam looked at Dean, his expression full of worry. "What if... What if we just... decided to keep our memories lost?"

"And do what?"

"What I was saying back in the room - we go to California, get a place, you go back to Stanford..." Dean trailed off, waiting for Sam. Sam bit his lip and looked out the window. "Sam, I know you've got these vision things but, man, I don't know if it's worth it to get our memories back if we might get hurt in the process. I mean, this is some deep shit and, yeah, maybe _before_ when we had our memories, we could kick ass, but..."

"-but we're at a serious disadvantage now," Sam finished gravely. Dean nodded, satisfied that Sam understood what he was trying to say. Sam sighed and nodded, then turned to Dean.

"I think you're right. I think... I think..." Sam trailed off, at a loss, then just finished by repeating himself: "I think you're right."

Dean gave a small smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "But I think we should still talk to Bobby - still stay here for a little while to see if he can come up with something that doesn't involve, like, _violence_, to get our memories back."

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. He was going to question whether they should even _want_ their memories back, but he held off: they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. And who knows: maybe he'll discover something that'll make him want to remember his past. So far, not a lot had made it onto that list though. Just one, really, and Dean looked at his brother thoughtfully.

Sam started the car and shifted into reverse.

"So what do you want to do?"

"Let's drive up north and just find a place to shoot. It'll clear our minds-" Dean stopped at Sam's chortle at that and rolled his eyes with a smile, "-you know what I mean. We blow off some steam, share what we found out with Bobby later this afternoon."

"Should we really go close to the compound? What if we're spotted by someone?" Sam asked, pressing the accelerator as he swerved out of the parking lot, headed north.

"You heard the kid - they're all cleared out by the cops. Plus the only wooded area's north - probably shouldn't open fire anywhere else," Dean answered reasonably.

"'kay," Sam shrugged, convinced.

Dean laid back against the seat and looked out the window. The Impala felt so comfortable and familiar that even the weird rattling noises coming from the front air vents sounded good.

After about fifteen minutes, the brothers found themselves driving through a heavily forested area. Not many cars had come or gone their way for awhile so the two of them kept their eyes out for a clearing where they could set up.

At last, Dean pointed out a spot and Sam rolled the car to the shoulder. Dean allowed himself a genuine smile, looking forward to their experiment. Sam quirked one of his own back at him before they got out and walked back to the trunk.

"So you think we're good enough to hit empty beer cans?" Sam playfully challenged.

"I think _I'm_ good enough to hit empty beer cans. Don't know about you, kiddo," Dean retorted, pulling the six-pack out of the trunk.

"Ha. Right. Like the guy that can bull's eye ninja stars and midget knives won't be a good shot," Sam laughed.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, feigning indignity, and shoving the beer into Sam's chest for him to hold. Sam grabbed them with a grunt and laughed lightly as Dean turned to lift the fake trunk floor to grab their weapons.

Sam waited, looking off into the distance, then turned when he heard the sound of a car. He tapped Dean's back.

"Hey dude, car's coming," he warned, and Dean hurried to zip the weapons bag shut. He had just lowered the trunk's floor when he heard the car approaching. At the same exact time Dean turned to watch the car pass, the driver jammed on the brakes and the car screeched to a halt as it veered onto the shoulder of the road directly opposite from where they were parked.

"What the hell-?" Dean said loudly. Sam glanced at his brother and shrugged.

"No, I have no idea..." He murmured as they watched two men scramble out of their car. The driver was short and college-aged, clean-shaven and well-dressed. The other guy, quickly rounding the front of the car, looked much worse for wear. He was older, maybe in his forties, his clothes wrinkled and likely dirty. He walked with a limp but made surprising time in sidling up alongside his young companion as they moved to cross the street and meet Sam and Dean.

"Hey..." Sam called out tentatively, trying to sound friendly. The two of them made it to the median when Sam felt Dean take a step forward in front of him.

"Hey!" Dean called out, his voice communicating the same authority he'd used on the kid back at the convenience store. Sam wasn't even remotely intimidated by the tone but it seemed to always do the trick... Until now.

"Sam! Sam it is _so_ good to see you, man!" The clean-shaven one said, completely disregarding Dean, as he reached his hand out and jogged the rest of the way over. Sam, baffled, tried to go with it and took the kid's hand. He felt Dean step closer to him as they shook.

"Yeah... yeah, it's good to see you too," Sam said vaguely, looking at the kid and his older companion. The man kept his eyes to the ground, his posture submissive, and Sam's brows furrowed further with confusion. "What's, uh, what's... goin' on?" He asked, giving a pointed look to the kid's friend. "Is he all right?"

Dean was watching the older gentleman closely as well. The man's posture and downtrodden bearing indicated hidden injuries and abuse... But the man was taller, even more muscular, that his young companion.

"Ah yeah no Ben's great," the kid said jovially, hitting him on the back. Ben grunted in pain at the gesture and Sam and Dean's eyes widened as the kid just chuckled at him. "Better sack than the last one. Stamina, y'know? S'where it's at," the kid blabbered, "Same with yours'," he added, gesturing to Dean. Dean flinched as if he'd been slapped but the kid kept going: "Anyway we're headed back home after the lay-low. You 'n yours' headed back too?"

"Um," Sam said, speechless, as he stared at Ben, back to the kid, then to Dean. Dean was looking at the kid with pure repulsion.

Finally, the kid deigned to regard Dean, staring right back at him. As he did, his demeanor went dark and his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"Hey, man. I'd drop the attitude. I know Sam's got a kind heart but however good you had it, it ain't gonna fly back home," he threatened. Dean's lips curled into a snarl as he listened, his eyes glinting with cold fury at the kid's audacity.

"Who the fuck do you think you a-" Dean's voice cut off with a gasp as the kid raised his fisted hand into the air.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, watching his brother grab his throat and crash to his knees on the ground. Sam bent down to level with his brother. "Dean, what? What is it!" he called, bracing him, and noticing Dean's eyes staring in fear up at the kid. Sam turned and did a double-take, stunned and terrified that it seemed as though the kid was throttling Dean's air supply just by clenching his hand.

"Dude _stop it_!" Sam yelled, letting go of his brother to shove the kid back. The kid let go and Dean immediately fell forward, coughing and sputtering for air. The kid started laughing as Sam turned back to help Dean. He kneeled down, putting a hand around Dean's back.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean coughed weakly, "Fine. I'm fine," he managed. At that, Sam registered the kid's laughter and looked up.

"What the hell-"

"Sorry man," the kid chuckled, palms up in the air defensively, "I know he's your sack but the dude had it coming," he finished, sounding full of good humor. Sam frowned, stood up, and walked towards the kid.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah man," the kid smirked. Sam reached arm's length, wound up, and punched the kid out cold. The kid crumpled to the ground.

Time stopped. The birds chirped, the chilly winds rustled the trees above. Ben looked up cautiously and Sam met his eyes. He shrugged and looked back to the kid's prone body on the road and nudged his side with his foot. He was definitely out for the count.

"He had it coming," Sam finally said simply, and he heard Dean give a low laugh behind him.

Reminded of his brother, Sam turned back to help Dean up.

"Are you okay? What happened?" He asked as Dean stepped up to his full height. He massaged his neck as he replied.

"Felt like I was suffocating - like he was strangling me."

"-He calls it his, 'vader move,'" Ben suddenly spoke up miserably. Both brothers looked up to him. Dean ticked his head at the kid.

"What's his name?"

Ben tilted his head at them, squinting.

"You... don't know his name?" Ben asked. The brothers shook their heads. Sam shrugged and Ben gave Sam a look of disbelief.

"Sam, you of all people should know-"

"Why?"

"Be...Because you're a Vestal," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He nodded to Dean. "Dean's your sack."

Dean put his hands on his hips as he shifted balance to one leg, annoyed.

"I don't appreciate being called a sack - I need you to explain that one to me, Ben," Dean quipped. Sam flickered a smile as he twisted to look at Dean.

"-Sack. Sack- like me. Like... as in 'sacrifice'-?" Ben prompted.

"_What_?" Dean asked harshly, his eyes buggering out.

"Wait what about - why am I a _Vestal_?" Sam interrupted. Ben grimaced at the two of them.

"What're you guys, like, retarded?"

"Just answer the damn question," Dean ordered.

"Vestals... The chosen ones, you know. Mike here," Ben pointed to his unconscious comrade, "he's got TK... Sam, you've got visions..."

At that, Sam and Dean's eyes both widened. Ben paused, uncertain.

"Uh, okay. Ben, is it?" Dean asked. Ben nodded. "Ben, there's no more cult. It's been disbanded-"

"-but-"

"No, the cops took it down. I suggest you get your buddy in the car and get as far away from here as possible. You're no longer a _sack_," Dean said, plainly disgusted by the concept, "and that kid's no longer a Vestal. You understand?"

Ben swallowed nervously and nodded, looking down at his 'buddy.'

"I don't want to take him," he whispered.

"What?" Sam asked, leaning forward.

"I don't want to take him," Ben repeated.

"Then don't," Dean replied simply.

Ben stared down at the kid and slowly nodded.

"C'mon Sam, we're going," Dean motioned to his brother and Sam gave him the keys. They moved towards the front seats, leaving Ben to stand over Mike's body.

"Hey, Ben," Dean called out after him. Ben looked up. "Get outta here, man."

Ben nodded and Dean ducked into the driver's seat of the Impala. He fumbled with the keys a little bit, adrenaline coursing through him.

"We gotta make a call to the cops - tell 'em to keep monitoring the area," he murmured. Sam nodded next to him, still slightly stunned.

"Do you think that guy was really slated to be a human sacrifice?" Sam asked, the horror of it barely muted in his tone. Dean jammed on the accelerator and swerved around to go back to the motel.

"God I hope not," Dean whispered heavily.

The drive back was eerily silent. Neither of them wanted to broach the concept that _Dean_ had been slated as a sacrifice. Or that the cult itself had catered to Sam's visions.

They got back into the motel room around four pm. Things felt cold and the two of them were thoroughly disturbed and isolated in their own thoughts.

Nothing seemed worth it anymore and Dean, for one, wanted to get out of dodge as fast as possible. When he watched Sam slump down onto the farthest bed to rest, he reconsidered about when to bring the idea up. Sam could sleep things off and they'd discuss it later.

* * *

**Writer's Note: **Woohoo this is now my _longest_ fic _ever_! Rest assured, more intense bro feels are on their way - I just needed to set the tone and get this plot _moving, _haha. Please comment/review if you can spare the time! Thank you so much!


	14. Chapter 14

**Writer's Note**: Woohoo! 8K in one _day_, bitches! It's just that I _really_ wanted to get a bro-love moment banged out. It's chapters like these that I look forward to writing when I'm done plotting and expositioning you all to death - Rest assured, the Cult&Lucidan&YED back story _will_ come around to a legit final climax, I think (hope & pray, lol), but this is a nice digression that should lend itself to the rest of the story quite easily & reasonably. Happy reading!

* * *

_Previously..._

_ The drive back was eerily silent. Neither of them wanted to broach the concept that Dean had been slated as a sacrifice. Or that the cult itself had catered to Sam's visions. _

_ They got back into the motel room around four pm. Things felt cold and the two of them were thoroughly disturbed and isolated in their own thoughts. _

_ Nothing seemed worth it anymore and Dean, for one, wanted to get out of dodge as fast as possible. When he watched Sam slump down onto the farthest bed to rest, he reconsidered about when to bring the idea up. Sam could sleep things off and they'd discuss it later._

* * *

**Clean Slate**

**Chapter 14**

* * *

The first sense that came to him in the darkness were whispered words rasping directly into his ear.

"I'll get you back, I promise, Sammy - I promise..."

Sam's body shuddered and a strong arm gripped him around the back.

"Please... please," Sam surprised himself by crying, his voice a higher pitch than what he was used to. He realized it was dark because his eyes were pushed up against someone's chest and he was being held tightly. A split-second later he realized he was holding on for dear life too.

"It's gonna be okay, I promise you. A few days and you'll be out. Ya just gotta hold on, okay, Sammy? I'm gonna get you back," came the same voice, but now Sam could recognize it. It was a higher pitch too, but it was unmistakably the voice of his brother. Understanding flooded in: CPS had found them. Dad was out of town.

"De- Dean," Sam gasped, tears streaming down his face, "Please... please don't leave me, _please_," he begged and felt Dean's hand rubbing his back and cupping his head.

"I... I can't," Dean choked, "I can't come with you right now but don't worry. Shh, don't worry, Sammy, I'm gonna get you back."

"But what if you _don't_?!" Sam yelled into his brother's chest, panicking. Sam felt Dean grab him tighter, holding him securely.

"I promise you, I _will_," Dean replied, but Sam had already started keening with despair, terrified.

"No, you're going to lose me," Sam cried. "You're going to lose me, Dean, you're going to lose me..."

"I'm not gonna lose you, Sammy. I'll never lose you. You gotta go with them right now though - I'll see you so soon, Sammy," Dean's voice cracked and Sam started sobbing as Dean started extracting himself from their embrace.

"Dean, please, _NO_!" he wept, reaching for Dean again, but Dean had stepped away to pull him up to stand. He wrapped his arms around Sam's chest from behind and squeezed.

"Come on man, pull it together," he whispered, "I'm not gonna leave you. You'll be fine, I promise."

"You're _lying_!" Sam yelled back, devastated, and Dean gripped his shoulder sharply, making Sam release a whimper of pain. He tugged his shoulder away and blinked the tears out of his eyes. They were standing in the middle of a stereotypical motel room, the lighting dim and the sun about to set. CPS had knocked on their door in the late afternoon after the brothers had walked home together.

Sam was being taken away. He was twelve years old. He zeroed in on the sympathetic face of the social worker and his face screwed back into tears. He tried to turn around, back into Dean, but Dean held him to face forward.

"Dean," Sam cried, drawing the word out miserably, and Dean held him tighter. "You won't find me again, Dean, you won't," he sobbed, _knowing_ that was he was saying was true.

The adult Sam, the one both watching and feeling the scene playing out, didn't understand where his certainty came from but he sure as hell felt the innate terror relentlessly battering him at the thought that Dean would never be able to find him again.

"C'mere, sweetie, it's okay," the social worker said kindly and Sam was hyperventilating, shaking his head and cringing against her outstretched hand.

"You'll never find me! Dean! You'll... you'll... you'll nev-never find me again!" Sam cried loudly, then nearly screamed as Dean pushed him forward towards the social worker and she grabbed his wrist.

"DEAN! DEAN! NO!" Sam's yelled at the top of his lungs. The social worker pulled him towards the motel room door. Sam looked behind him to stare at big brother with wide, panicked eyes. Dean's tear tracks had dried and his arms were folded against his chest as he watched Sam get dragged to the door. Sam couldn't get Dean to look at him no matter how much he yelled but he stopped calling out for him when the social worker pulled him out of the room. Dean took a few steps forward and Sam looked up, hoping Dean would call it off, grab him, pull him back inside and slam the door closed after telling the social worker to fuck off.

"Take care of him, Sharon," Dean said evenly, shattering Sam. The social worker smiled and nodded honorably. Sam burst into tears, nearly crumpling to the ground but for _Sharon's_ fast grip to hold him up.

The last words he'd hear out of his big brother would be a lackluster request for someone else to take care of him.

"Dean - Dean _please," _he pleaded, more now to himself than anyone else as he stumbled and fell into the backseat of a sedan. The door shut closed and Sam turned his tear-stained face to look out the window, searching for one last look of his hero.

Dean had already closed the door to the motel.

Sam's tears flowed until he launched back into denial and shouted for his brother through the car's window.

"Please... please let this be a joke, please let this be one of YOUR SICK _JOKES_, DEAN!" Sam screamed, anger and pure fear mixing together as the car's engine started.

Sam watched through tears as the car pulled out of the spot and moved out of the parking lot.

"You'll never find me, you'll never find me, Dean," Sam repeated over and over again in whispered sobs, rocking back and forth, traumatized and abandoned.

Suddenly Sam was shunted against the backseat of the car, his heart stopping its beats, his hands flailing and head jerking backwards. A milisecond later he was thrown forward harshly, the breath getting knocked out of him as shrill pitched metal grinded and blinding lights shredded through his mind. Sam managed to scream, his body bucking in spasms, as the pain split him in half.

"_DEAN_!" Sam called out frantically, disoriented and terrified.

All at once, Sam got slammed down against something cushioned and bounced before he rolled over and threw up all over an already stained burnt orange carpet. Sam gagged, his breath ragged and his stomach still roiling and churning. He realized he was still crying, his sobs loud in the relative quiet of wherever he was now.

Sam broke into exhausted whimpers, limp against the mattress, utterly hopeless. He closed his eyes, choking back tears and gasping in breaths. He wanted to die in that moment - just vanish into sweet, uncomplicated nothingness...

Sam felt something cool - a wash cloth - sweep across his mouth. At the same time, he felt a hand rest itself on his back and a soothing voice trail through to his head.

"I'm right here, Sam," it said, "I didn't lose you. I found you," it reassured. "Whatever just happened, I obviously found you, Sammy," Dean explained softly, rubbing Sam's back.

Dean felt Sam start to shake under his hand.

"Sam-?" Dean asked, worried, and reached to move Sam around to face him. Sam turned at Dean's touch but covered his face with his hands, trying to get himself under control and failing. Dean cringed with sympathy and tilted his head.

"You... you..." Sam tried to explain what he'd seen, "you l-left me," Sam got out, a quick inhale getting the better of him and a tear rolling its way down his cheek. Sam's heart felt like it was still breaking, every piece of him having gotten beaten: he was worthless. Worse than worthless: he was a burden and truly unloved by-

"Sammy, that doesn't sound like me," Dean whispered gently. Sam's face screwed into what he knew would be more tears.

"I-I know..." he cried, then fell into sobs again.

Dean gave another true grimace and edged forward, starting to pull at Sam's waist and moving up.

"C'mere, man," he said as he inched Sam up slowly, "C'mon," he said, his voice strong and steady, as he gripped Sam under the arms and pulled.

Sam was sluggish but automatically fit into Dean's embrace. For someone so tall, Dean was surprised by how _little_ Sam felt when Dean held him, curling in and against Dean like he was so much younger. Sam shook and trembled against him as Dean rubbed his back and carded his fingers through his hair.

"Sam, Sam whatever memory played out, I obviously found you. I got you back," Dean started, thinking maybe he could drill this one home. Sam started moving, started pawing his hands around Dean and actively hugging him. Dean, somewhat surprised, decided to go with it.

"I... You gave me away," Sam said weakly, still shivering in his brother's arms and trying to get closer - get the sense of security he knew Dean could provide _back_.

"No, I didn't," Dean blurted, suddenly angry - but not at Sam. Sam tensed for a second before Dean leaned in and hugged Sam. "Sorry - sorry - but I didn't, Sam. I _obviously_ didn't give you away, bud, you're right here with me," he argued reasonably, replacing his hands around the kid's back more securely. He quirked his head to the side, trying to see Sam's face which he'd buried in the crook of Dean's shoulder. "Right? You're right here with me, right?" Dean said comfortingly, putting his hand against Sam's head and ruffling his little brother's hair.

"Uh huh," Sam whimpered, his voice nearly cracking even in that one vocalization. He worked on breathing correctly, trying to swallow down any more sobs.

"Tell me about the memory, Sam," Dean asked softly, "How old were we?"

Sam cringed and squeezed Dean tighter. Dean returned the gesture and sighed just before pulling Sam up closer. Sam gave a pitched grunt as Dean rearranged them, soon finding himself practically in Dean's lap as Dean leaned against the bed's headboard. Sam gulped and settled, trying his best to focus so he could answer his big brother.

And that was when he realized it. When it finally clicked.

Sam closed his eyes and turned his face against Dean's chest, barely suppressing one last sob.

"Sam-?" Dean asked worriedly, starting to rub Sam's back again. "You okay? Come on, man, I'm right here. Didn't lose you, I promise."

Sam sniffled a chuckle against Dean's shirt.

"S-sorry," Sam whispered, his voice muffled against Dean's shirt, "I'm just... I'm starting to... to get why... how y-you're all I have..." He murmured. He felt Dean's chest expand and the easy, long exhale that followed.

"Yeah me too," he whispered tiredly, stroking Sam's hair as he reached for his cell phone in his back pocket. He jostled Sam and Sam looked up, his face blotched and tear-streaked, eyes still watering, to see what Dean was doing.

Dean dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. He looked down into his brother's wide brown eyes and gave a small reassuring smile before starting to rub his back again.

"Who're you calling?" Sam croaked.

"Bobby," Dean whispered. Sam's face was apparently expressive enough because Dean followed up quickly, "It's okay. I'm not going to ask him to come over or anything," he murmured, pressing his hand over Sam's head protectively.

"Okay," Sam whispered.

"Relax, it's okay," Dean said softly before perking up as the line picked up. "Hey- Bobby?"

"Yeah?" Sam heard the gruff, tinny voice through the receiver.

"Hey man, uh... This is gonna sound like a weird question, but did I ever, like, _abandon_ Sam?"

Dean shifted his arm to around Sam's hunched shoulders.

"Huh?" Bobby retorted glibly.

"Did I ever abandon Sam?" Dean repeated seriously. Sam wriggled a little under Dean's arm and Dean looked down at his brother, mouthing, "what?"

"Um," Sam coughed, "it... it was when we were little. I... was young. It was like... a child protective services thing," Sam explained, his voice crackling, his throat raw.

"Bobby it had to do with CPS when Sam was young-? Ring a bell?" Dean relayed.

"Oh... shit, yeah," Bobby replied slowly, "yeah I remember that. Did the kid have another memory vision?"

Dean hugged Sam to him when he answered.

"Sure did. Apparently I abandoned him-?" Dean asked, secretly hoping - and not fully knowing _why_ he was hoping - that _this_ vision was wrong. "I... Bobby, I wouldn't have done that, right?" He asked, allowing himself to sound worried.

"He there with you?"

"Sam? Yeah he's like _right_ here," Dean smiled and Sam huffed a small laugh against him.

"Hey Bobby," Sam sniffed.

"Put me on speaker, will you, Dean?" Bobby requested.

"Sure," Dean murmured, looking down at his phone and touching the option, "okay you're on speaker."

"Okay. Sam, were you like... eleven, twelve years old?"

"Yes, yeah," Sam answered promptly, nodding against Dean's chest and staring at the phone in front of them.

"Okay kiddo, so yeah you were pretty traumatized after that," Bobby acknowledged solemnly. "CPS got wind of you two staying in a motel without a guardian - your daddy was on a hunt - and while Dean had his paperwork faked and passed as eighteen, _you_ didn't."

"Okay," Dean said, waiting. It took a couple beats of silence before Dean couldn't take it anymore. "So what happened? I got him back, right?" Dean asked anxiously, his own sense of discomfort leaking into his voice. He wouldn't have just _left_ his little brother, would he have?

"Yeah Dean, ya got him back," Bobby answered, his smile coming through loud and clear over the phone.

"Bobby... I was, like, _positive_, Dean would never find me again," Sam said, his voice teetering. He heard Bobby sigh over the phone.

"That's because Dean's a great actor, kid. He had to pretend a lot of shit growing up. You should've known Dean would never have turned you over to CPS if he didn't already have a plan to get you out, but... you know... you were young... and I think John had scared the crap out of you once about CPS, so that kind of blurred your perception of what was really going on."

Dean couldn't hide his relieved sigh.

"So... so how'd I get him out?" Dean asked, resettling himself more comfortably against the headboard. Sam took notice and angled his back against Dean's chest so he could hear Bobby better. At that, Dean took an unthinking second to wrap his arms around his little brother. Sam nestled in as Dean rested his wrist against Sam's chest and held the phone out.

"Bobby?" Dean prompted.

"Yeah... Well, I probably don't know most of it," Bobby lied.

"Will you tell us anyway?" Sam asked.

"Okay sure. You two were based in, ah, I want to say Colorado. You two enrolled in school - Dean was in high school and Sam, I think you were junior high or middle school or something..."

"Okay, first question," Dean spoke up.

"Shoot."

"Everyone thought I was eighteen?"

"Yeah."

"...But at most I had to have been sixteen."

"Yeah."

"So, did no one think an eighteen year old sophomore in high school was weird?"

"Nah, Dean, you were a senior."

"What?" Dean asked, confused.

"Dean, you got your G.E.D. because you didn't give a shit about keeping track of your transcripts."

"What, so I was a sixteen year old senior?"

"Yeah, ya idjit," Bobby quipped, his smile making its way through his voice again. Dean felt Sam tilt his head to speak to him.

"See, Dean? You're not dumb," Sam said, his voice still slightly strangled but unquestionably playful.

"Shut up," Dean huffed, cuffing Sam's face lightly. "Okay, whatever, keep going, Bobby."

"Okay. So you guys moved into your new schools and Sam started havin' some trouble with his peers almost right off the bat."

"What, like, bullies?" Dean clarified, curious.

"Yep. Sam didn't like to fight back - felt it was unfair given his training."

"Eh, seriously?" Dean quirked the shoulder Sam's head was resting against.

"No, no that does sound like me," Sam acknowledged casually. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Okay, so Sam got bullied because he bought into bullshit pacifism," Dean summarized.

"It's not bullshit, Dean-"

"Hey!" Bobby groused. "Am I telling this story or what?"

"No continue."

"Please yeah, go on, Bobby."

"Okay," Bobby established, "Okay so Sam had some issues with his class mates. One of them knocked him pretty hard in the eye - got a good shiner off it, and that's when shit hit the fan. The school wanted to speak to your Daddy and, since John was out on a hunt, Dean you were the only one that showed."

"That sounds normal," Dean shrugged.

"It wasn't. In fact, the school was so pissed that you showed up 'stead of your Daddy that they tried real damn hard to get a hold of him. He was out for the count though - werewolf a few counties north had done 'im in good. He was recouping, his cell smashed to shit."

"Ah, so that's when-"

"Yeah that's when CPS got called in. I got a call from you, Dean, when it happened. You were pretty worried, scared as hell and scrambling to forge docs saying that you were Sam's primary guardian," Bobby explained. Dean pursed his lips, unconsciously tightening his hold around Sam.

"I tried to help you - worked my ass off to get what you needed in time, but the services there were way too fast in mobilizing. You thought you had the end of the week before they'd even _think_ about taking Sam... but a couple days later I got your call right after they'd dragged 'im out," Bobby said sadly. His tone was soft, pained, as if remembering that call was straining _his_ emotions.

"You were, uh, you were pretty upset. You told me that you had to fake a peaceful separation even though Sam had no idea what was going on..."

"Yeah, Bobby, that's... that's what I saw," Sam confirmed, giving an involuntary shudder. Dean moved his free hand to Sam's wrist and gave it a small squeeze.

"Yeah well, it wasn't real, Sam. Dean had to do it in order to make sure they weren't going to perceive him as a threat to your welfare."

"What? How would that-"

"-Because if Dean had refused to let you go, they would've taken you from him anyway and to a more secure location. If they'd perceived him as a potential kidnapper, they woulda put you in any number of childcare facilities in a hundred mile radius... Dean wasn't gonna make it easier for them to take you from him."

Sam nodded slowly, coming to terms.

"So..." Dean prompted, but Bobby didn't continue. "So how'd I get him back?"

"Well Dean _you_ were set and ready to kidnap the kid that night..."

Sam smiled and Dean snorted a laugh.

"But when you called me, I told you to hold off. I promised I could fast track the forged docs and then you'd be able to get him out legally - well - you know... Not legally but legally."

"Okay. How long did we have to wait? How long was Sam stuck in guardianship limbo?"

"Well I fast-tracked the docs and cracked open the yellow pages to call every motel around where I knew that werewolf was prowlin'. Finally got your Daddy through the motel's in-room phone."

"And?"

"He was hurt pretty bad. Not dyin' bad, but he couldn't make it back to ya. I gave 'im the run down and offered to stand in as your daddy for the sake of appearances when you arrived to pick up Sam with the documentation."

"What'd... what'd he say when he found out I'd been taken?" Sam asked, curious. Bobby gave a quiet chuckle.

"John was more on board with Dean's plan of action. Woulda given the kid the go-ahead to straight out kidnap you that night, Sam," Bobby replied easily. Dean quirked a smile, willing to recognize that detail as indicative of how much he cared.

"Anyway," Bobby continued of his own volition now, "John 'n I hashed out the plan - I was gonna drive down to Dean with the docs and we'd go through the bureaucratic bullshit together in order to make sure that Dean was registered as your legal guardian, Sam."

"How long did it take?" Dean asked seriously.

"Sam was taken on a Tuesday. We got 'im back the following week," Bobby said. He breathed a deep sigh before continuing. Dean bristled with anticipation, something nagging at him that he couldn't quite place. He swallowed nervously and decided to throw it out there.

"Was... was everything okay? When I got him back, I mean?" Dean asked, again unconsciously pulling his little brother closer.

"Yeah..." Bobby trailed off, sounding like he was holding something back.

"Bobby-?" Dean prompted, annoyed.

"Once everything was squared away, they presented Sam in the offices of the facility he'd been staying in. Sam had kind of checked out by then though."

"What do you mean, 'checked out'?" Dean asked through gritted teeth. He was getting less and less surprised by the intensity of his emotions whenre Sam was concerned and right now he was just free forming.

"You were livid, Dean. I don't think I've ever seen you as furious as you were that day."

"Mmhm," Dean grunted.

"So... what happened?" Sam asked.

"Dean realized you'd clocked out soon enough after seein' ya. Had a few choice words to say to the social workers, then pulled you out. I stayed behind to give my own rendition while Dean got you in the car and ready to go."

"When... How long did it take for Sam to check back in?" Dean asked gently, hoping it hadn't been too long.

"Soon. It was quick," Bobby replied immediately. "I got into the car - the two of you were in the backseat. A few hours in, I heard Sam in the backseat."

"Was he okay?"

"Cryin'... But happy, y'know? Dean, y'just held him all the way up there, lettin' 'im know it wouldn't ever happen again," Bobby explained kindly. Sam rubbed his eyes and Dean realized his own had gotten a little watery.

"Your daddy met up with us back at my place. Sam didn't leave your side for weeks, Dean, and you likewise didn't want 'im outta your sight for a minute... We had a great Thanksgiving that year too actually," Bobby added thoughtfully, making Sam and Dean laugh weakly. Dean coughed his voice clear.

"Okay. Thanks, Bobby," he said genuinely.

"'Course."

Sam twisted against Dean for a second and whispered.

"D'you wanna tell 'im...?"

"Tell me what?" Bobby interrupted.

"You know the deaths we were investigating here?"

"Yeah - they're linked to the Vestal cult," Bobby replied.

"Oh, you knew about that?" Sam asked, taken off guard.

"Yeah. I know how to research, you idjits, what do you think I been doin' all day?"

"Well. Okay," Dean said, shrugging.

"How do _you_ know about them?" Bobby returned.

"We met a couple of them on the road. One almost strangled Dean with his mind," Sam supplied nervously.

"_What_?!"

"The dude strangled me with his _mind_," Dean repeated loudly.

"I _heard_ you-"

"Oh," Dean murmured, shrugging. Sam gave a light huff of laughter.

"-I mean to say _what the hell_ are you boys _doin'_ to get into this shit so easy?!" Bobby yelled into the phone.

"I-What?! We didn't even _do_ anything-" Dean replied defensively.

"We were up north finding a place to shoot guns," Sam informed. There was a pause on the line. "Bobby-?"

"Tell me again why you boys were out in the woods not five miles from the compound of the cult you two had brought down?" Bobby asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Oh _sweet_ so we actually did bring it down, huh?" Dean asked, satisfied and totally unfazed by Bobby's tone of voice.

"-We, uh, we wanted to see if we were good shots, Bobby," Sam responded.

"-And you couldn't'a asked _me?_"

"Oh yeah. So, Bobby, are we good shots with guns?"

"_YES, _you _god damned FOOLS_!" Bobby yelled back into the phone and hearing the boys' snickering laughter travel back through the line. Bobby rolled his eyes in exasperation, his heart thudding with the implications of what they'd just told him. Still, he couldn't help but crack a small smile. It was nice to hear the two of them on the same page and laughing.

* * *

**Writer's Note**: Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare the time!


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